Perihelion
by darkangel1211
Summary: Sherlock takes on a new case where a local BDSM club are involved in human trafficking, with the club specialising in the sale, torture and eventual murder of submissives. See inside for full summary. WIP, Part 9 uploaded 04/07/2013 A/N added 09/07/2013
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.**

**Sherlock takes on a new case where a local BDSM club are involved in human trafficking, with the club specialising in the sale, torture and eventual murder of submissives.**

**John isn't surprised in the slightest when he hears that Sherlock agreed to take the case, but when they go to the club under the guise of a dom/sub relationship, John is surprised by how well Sherlock takes on the role of the dominant male.**

**And how much he begins to like it.**

Part One

It really shouldn't have been that big a deal, or so John had thought when Sherlock texted him to request his assistance with a new case and to come back to the flat as soon as he'd finished his shift at the clinic, but he later admitted to himself that anything involving Sherlock was a big deal and therefore he should have been prepared for anything and surprised by nothing.

His shift ended early, as it happened, so when he reached 221B and jogged up the stairs, the last thing he expected to see was Sherlock Holmes in his best outfit; a Spencer-Hart (as usual) but with a tight-fitting black shirt instead of the white John was accustomed to seeing on his flatmate, again with the topmost buttons undone, with the whole outfit emphasizing the paleness of Sherlock's skin and the smooth flawlessness of it. Not that this was unusual. Sherlock had a habit of making even the grubbiest outfit look fantastic, such was man's character with his self-confidence and well-deserved ego, but that wasn't the detail that made John pause in the entrance to the living room with a complete loss of what to say.

The man himself was sitting in his chair, one leg crossed over the other as normal … with his riding crop draped over his knees.

"Ah, John," Sherlock said, looking completely unfazed at John's somewhat surprised expression. John found he couldn't tear his eyes away from where Sherlock's fingers were on the crop, one hand holding the base while the other slowly slid the tips of Sherlock's fingers up the length of it before sliding them back down in what John was sure was just a check for damage or wear. Yes, that must be it. "The clinic let you go early. Good."

"Err… Case?" John asked, swallowing around a dry throat.

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet with all the fluid grace that only a member of the Holmes family could possess, holding his riding crop down by his side as he pulled out his mobile. "Lestrade texted me. The body of a twenty-two year old Caucasian male was found down by the docks at half past two today. I've just returned from examining the body at the scene."

"Right…" John said, still looking at Sherlock's riding crop. "So why do you have your riding crop with you?"

Sherlock looked up at John from his mobile, his mouth quirking into a sort of half smirk. "It turns out Lestrade wasn't joking when he thought I would find this one interesting." He looked back down at his mobile and clicked some buttons before turning it around to show John what he'd pulled up, and John found himself blinking at some images several times before he realised they were close up shots of a very naked man's abused backside. "These are some pictures I took of the body whilst I was there," Sherlock went on to explain. "Underneath the strikes of the flogger there are fading bruise marks; you can see them there along the small of the back, the buttocks and thighs." He took the mobile back from John and locked the screen before putting it back inside the pocket of his suit jacket.

John still didn't understand what this had to do with Sherlock's riding crop, and the other man must have deduced it because he rolled his eyes with an air of impatience. "The bruises were made two days ago, but the flogging marks were made just before his death by a man who didn't know what he was doing with the flogger, or, more likely, didn't care how he was striking the victim. Yet the bruises have been placed on the body with deliberate care; it's possible the man was a submissive because there is clear evidence of aftercare on the bruises and he wouldn't have been able to look after them himself without some sort of assistance.

"Lestrade has already texted me the details of the man they're interviewing; a Dom called Jeffrey Burkenright. He reported a missing person to the police shortly after the bruises were inflicted, probably because they had played a scene before parting company, and it was afterwards that the man was kidnapped. It's obvious the Dom didn't kill the victim though; the flogger strikes are all wrong compared to the bruising."

John wasn't the least bit surprised when his brain faltered over Sherlock's use of the word 'Dom', 'submissive', and 'flogger', his words catching in his throat when he went to ask a question because it turned out he didn't know what he wanted to ask. "Ok… So why do you have your crop again?"

Sherlock looked at John as if seeing him for the first time, his confusion darting across his face. "Oh, didn't I mention it? We're going to the BDSM club where the man was last seen by his Dom before he disappeared. But it's not just any BDSM club, John. It's a _gentleman's_ club!" The last was said with a gleam in Sherlock's eye and that half-smirk again, showing just how amusing the detective was finding the whole ruddy fiasco.

"Of course we are," John replied, rolling his eyes and wandering towards the kitchen to make himself a much needed cup of strong tea.

As he was pulling a cup of the cupboard and went to find the sugar, he couldn't stop himself from startling again when he realised Sherlock was directly behind him. "Jeez! Sherlock!" John gasped, turning around to face the other man. "Honestly, one of these days I'm going to buy you a bloody collar with a bell on it!"

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, intrigued. "Why would you want to do that?"

"So I can hear it when you're coming!" John said before turning back to finish his tea. He flicked the switch on the kettle and went to retrieve the milk while he waited for it to boil; and felt his irritation rise when he heard the switch being put back into the 'off' position and the faint 'chink' of the cup being put away. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

Sherlock didn't answer immediately, instead taking John's arm by the crook of his elbow and guiding him to the stairs which would take them up to John's room. "No time for tea," Sherlock was saying as they were walking, before gently ushering John up the stairs. "Your outfit for the club has been laid out on your bed."

"Oh, so you're dressing me now?" John said, a hint of sarcasm dripping from his voice, but Sherlock didn't so much as flinch.

"Well the club is the five star hotel of the BDSM world, or so I've been led to believe," Sherlock drawled. "We can't go there looking any less than our best, can we."

John didn't have an anything to say to that and couldn't find the energy in him to say no when this was the nicest way Sherlock had ever asked him for anything (even if he was actually being told what to do), and obediently trudged up the stairs to get dressed. Although he couldn't resist sticking his middle finger up behind him because he just _knew_ that Sherlock was watching him.

The sound of Sherlock's laugh rang in John's ears for a long time after he'd shut his bedroom door.

oOo

Twenty minutes later, John found himself sat in the passenger seat of a rented Aston Martin, the DB9, in a gleaming charcoal colour that had looked simply stunning when the hire car employee dropped the car off outside their flat. His face had broken out into a wide smile, having never considered the fact that looking their 'best' also meant having _the_ best on offer as well.

And Sherlock hadn't been kidding when he said that they needed to look fantastic; on John's bed, Sherlock had laid out a suit that John had never seen before, with the suit itself coloured a lovely dove-grey with a pale blue shirt and light grey shoes which were a shade darker then the colour of the material. When John had slipped it over his shoulders, the clothing had clung to his frame in all the right places and that made him feel great about himself because, if he was being honest, he hadn't quite managed to keep his trim figure from his army days and the new outfit made him feel more confident. It was difficult not to though, especially since it was obvious that there had been no spared expense; the suit had been especially tailor-made to John's specifications, and it had left John wondering when Sherlock had gotten his measurements before he realised that Sherlock had barged in on him more than once in the bathroom when he'd been completely naked. After the Irene Adler case, John was no longer surprised at how Sherlock managed it.

Sherlock must have noticed that it was no trouble at all for John to leave the flat when the car arrived, undeniably excited about getting the chance to drive an Aston and feeling like he'd woken up on Christmas morning. And more than a little put out when he realised he wouldn't be driving it.

"It's not proper, John," Sherlock had said, but that hadn't explained anything to him and he sorely wanted some answers.

"What do you mean 'proper'?" he asked, trying very hard not to act like the two year old he was pretty sure he'd been when he found out he wasn't driving the car.

Sherlock glanced at him from the road for a split second, the look no less powerful for only having half of Sherlock's focus on him. "Another thing I forgot to mention. It isn't proper behaviour for a Dom to be driven around by their sub. Upsets the power dynamics too much, or so they would have us believe. Imbeciles."

John felt his mouth drop open with Sherlock's words, feeling a chill up his spine although the car's air-con had been adjusted to a steady twenty-two degrees centigrade to combat the cold December air. "Excuse me?"

Sherlock stopped the car at a red light, pulling the handbrake up and putting the car into neutral before turning his head to John. "We need to have assigned roles to be able to infiltrate the club," he said slowly, as though he were speaking to a child. "They're not going to let us in the door if we don't have the roles planned beforehand. I need to be the dominant partner in the relationship because I need to question the people there and I wouldn't be able to do that as a submissive. It would draw too much attention."

"And you didn't think to tell me this before you decided to take us to a BDSM club?" John asked. He could feel his temper rising, his left hand completely steady because of the rising tension within the vehicle. "Tell me, Sherlock, does this mean that I'm going to be spread-eagled over a barrel before the night is out, or is that just the warm-up?"

Sherlock scoffed, resuming his driving again when the lights turned green. "Don't be ridiculous," he said, turning down another road and pulling into a car park that looked like it was for private use. "As your Dom, I will have a responsibility to ensure that you are kept safe and happy throughout the course of the evening. It does work both ways, of course. You will need to respond to any order I give you without question, but be assured, John, that I will not ask you to do anything that is outside your comfort zone."

"Not that this entire evening isn't out of my comfort zone," John grumbled, staring out the side window of the car in favour over glaring daggers into the side of the detective's head. "And I suppose it hasn't escaped your attention that I am one hundred percent straight, meaning that I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in pretending to be your sexual partner? Submissive or not?"

"As I said before, John, I won't make you do anything outside of your comfort zone. I need you to trust me."

_Otherwise this won't work_ was the unspoken part of that sentence, but the words flowed through John's mind as loudly as though Sherlock had spoken them. "So what do you need me to do? How are we going to stop them kidnapping the submissives?"

It was as good an acceptance as Sherlock knew he was ever going to get from John, so he didn't hesitate in giving him all the details necessary before they prepared to enter the club.

oOo

Sherlock was a man of his word, John was relieved to see, so by the time they'd reached the club and made their way inside, John only had to endure a few leering looks from the Doms who were undoubtedly single, with the eyes being more appreciative from the Doms who were already in relationships and had their subs kneeling down beside them.

When they walked through the front entrance to the building, John could safely say that it wasn't anything like what he'd been expecting for an establishment that catered to the elite of the BDSM class. Rather than people being kept behind bars having pain inflicted upon them, or finding individuals swinging from the ceiling in harnesses, he found that the atmosphere was more civilised than he'd initially given them credit for. Sherlock hadn't overdressed them in the slightest, considering almost every person John saw had some sort of suit on or was dressed in a smart-casual way, and the people themselves were smiling, conversing in small groups and around what Sherlock described as 'art'. In other words, submissive men and women who were bound or gagged (or both) in various different ways in several states of undress, all straining to be admired by their Masters and the Dominants that also viewed them.

Although the colour was just what he expected; almost everything John could see was a shade of red or completely black. He guessed some things were more traditional than others and colour was no exception, with the owners of the club going as far as polishing the wood of the bar to a shade more reminiscent of the black cherry so it matched the rest of the décor, rather than the pale oak that the wood would have been originally (or so he was reliably informed by Sherlock).

As they proceeded to a corner of the very large room, John had to keep reminding himself to keep his eyes averted from any people that they passed, playing the role of the passive, obedient sub the way Sherlock had told him to, and having to rely on Sherlock's sense of direction with only one of Sherlock's hands on the small of his back to guide him. The club itself wasn't busy; it was still early, just gone six in the evening, but that didn't mean it was deserted, and already the noises of the room began to filter their way through the fog in John's head. The sounds were coming from the centre of the room specifically, the place where a small stage had been set up, and, before John had averted his eyes, he'd seen a young woman being tied up by a much older man to a large wooden 'X', a man who seemed to have the single-minded intent in showing off his prize.

Though his methods of showing her off certainly weren't ways that John would have considered treating any partners that he'd had previously.

The rhythmic sounds of bare flesh being paddled seemed much louder now, with every other snap of the leather-covered item being accompanied by the cry of the woman enduring it. No, 'enduring' was the wrong word, John decided when he'd been given permission by Sherlock to look at the stage. 'Enjoying' was far more apt a word to describe the look the woman had on her face, although it was streaked with black tears from where her mascara had run and the cheeks of her arse were a bright red, making John wince with every strike even though the woman was begging her Dom for more by the end of it.

In short, the whole experience had left John feeling rather out of his depth, but when he risked a glance at Sherlock, the other man looked as composed as ever, completely unflustered by the activity going on around them.

"It's always nice to see new faces," John heard another man say, and saw it when the person's shoes came into his line of sight. "Is this your man?" The question had been directed at Sherlock.

John felt Sherlock's hand sweep across his back to his opposite shoulder, placing his fingers where the other man would be able to see them. "Can there be any doubt?" Sherlock said, leaning close so that when he spoke John could feel the breath coming from Sherlock's mouth against the nape of his neck. He struggled not to shiver with the sensation of it, but had the niggling thought that that was the exact reaction Sherlock was going for. What better way to show a man's submissive nature than to have him physically tremble at the sound of his Dom's voice in his ear?

_It's just an act, it's just an act.'_ John repeated the lines over and over in his head while he gave himself permission to respond to Sherlock's voice, his frame trembling slightly under Sherlock's fingers, and felt more than saw Sherlock smile in response.

"Hmmm, yes," the other Dom said with his appreciation evident from his tone. "Very nice. He knows the sound of his Master's voice."

"Yes. He does." Sherlock sounded totally assured of that fact, despite it being a blatant lie, but the confidence Sherlock was displaying was enough to convince the other Dom of their relationship together.

"Is this your first time to a social event?" the man asked Sherlock, his own sub coming by to kneel at his Master's feet and giving John a small smile when they made brief eye contact before he dutifully lowered his eyes to the floor. John kept half an ear open so he would hear when Sherlock gave him a command, but while he was being ignored he decided to pay closer attention to the only other submissive he'd seen up close since they arrived.

The submissive was a young man with the kind of look that you would see on a surfer in the States; the expensive cut on his blond hair and faint tan on his body made him look more mature than he actually was, for he couldn't have been older than twenty-five, but his demeanour was so meek and pleasant to watch that John found himself wondering how he could have found such a state of mind while being dominated by another man. Obviously, it could just be that he was gay and enjoyed the attention that his Dom showered him with, but from looking at him John guessed that there was something more, but for the life of him he couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was.

"May I take a look at him?" The other Dom's voice rang sharp in his ears, and John fought to remain still and calm while Sherlock seemed to take forever in answering.

"I'm afraid he's not quite ready for showing off," Sherlock replied, rubbing his fingers into John's shoulder in what was meant to be a soothing gesture as the detective automatically picked up the signals of John's feelings towards being handled by another Dom. "We're both relatively new to this game, you see. There are some areas which we're still under the process of discovering about each other and I need to know how he reacts in _every way_ until I can show him at his best."

The Dom chuckled. "Of course. It would be a shame to see him at any less than his full potential. Perhaps, when you are both ready, you would be willing to share your relationship with the people here? It would be marvellous to watch." Before Sherlock could respond to the other man's suggestion, the Dom carried on speaking. "In fact, my boy here is due to have a private showing in one of the smaller booths of this club. I'm sure it would please him greatly to show your man a thing or two of how it's done. You said it yourself, you're both relatively new to this lifestyle. Maybe some of the things he can show you will make the transitions easier."

John felt Sherlock's fingers slide from his shoulder to underneath his chin, tilting his head up marginally until he could see Sherlock's eyes. The intimate touch to his jaw was threatening to become too much for him, having only ever done the move himself with a woman he was intimate with, but somehow he kept it together. _'Remember the case. Remember the lives you'll be saving.'_

"Well, John? What do you think? Would you like to see them do a show for us?" Sherlock's voice was deceptively curious, but when John looked at the other man's eyes, he could see that Sherlock was giving him the opportunity to back out from it. He said he didn't want to put John in any situation that he couldn't handle and he meant it. Yet, at the same time, John could see it in Sherlock's eyes that this could be the make or break that they'd been searching for since they arrived. They needed to find out everything they could about this club while they were here, the private rooms being no exception, and it seemed that invites were very rare. They wouldn't get this opportunity again.

Something inside of John steeled itself, and in the calmest voice he could muster, he said his first words of the evening. "Yes, Sherlock."

_To be continued_

**A/N: Thank you to the people who have reviewed and faved this work! :-)**

**I humbly dedicate this chapter to Puggle, who has stuck with me through the writer's block and the long waits between the parts in my stories and whose words have always made me smile on even the darkest of days! *Hugs***

**In answer to my guest review - I heartily concur, and this fic is my way of rectifying that problem. I hope you enjoyed it!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.**

**Warnings: Graphic BDSM scene ahead between two men; proceed with caution ;-)**

Part Two

Both John and Sherlock quickly found themselves escorted to one of the private rooms that the Dom had spoken of; they were taken up a flight of stairs that were at the back of the main room and into a large corridor that branched out into several smaller ones as they followed the Dom and his sub, trying to take in as much as possible regarding their surroundings before they reached their destination.

When they reached the private room John saw that the walls were a deep red colour again, the same as the main room downstairs, and there were heavy crimson curtains covering the windows to allow for privacy. The room itself had enough space to comfortably fit a double bed in it with extra to spare, but instead it had a small platform at the back (which was actually the front, technically) and there were at least ten chairs all facing towards the improvised stage. John was vaguely surprised when they entered the room to find that it wasn't empty; there were other people there as well, although he couldn't tell if they were all couples or not, and in front of them was a padded bench, a bit like a sawhorse, but this one had leather cuffs attached to the four legs at the bottom. It took him all of two seconds to realise what the cuffs were for and it was only Sherlock's hand at his back that prevented him from moving backwards so he could leave the room, leave the entire building in fact, and never look back.

Sherlock must have sensed his unease because he leant his head close to John's ear and whispered, "Steady," while keeping his hand firm on John's back to stop him from leaving. To anyone looking at them, it would seem that Sherlock was just telling John to contain his excitement, hence his choice of the word 'steady'; something that would not seem out of place to the people they were with. However, both of them were aware that they needed to be clear-headed for this, but John wasn't sure if this was something he wanted to see happen in front of him. It had been bad enough with the woman on the wooden cross, which Sherlock had briefly informed him was called a 'Saint Andrews Cross', when all he'd wanted to do was go up and untie her because, as far as he was concerned, it wasn't the way to treat a woman.

So when the sub he'd seen kneeling from before willingly took off his shirt and went over to the sawhorse at his Dom's command to lay his body over it, face down, John felt his face flush hot and his skin become slick with a cold sweat that had nothing to do with fever. "Sherlock?" he whispered, allowing some of his worry to leak into his voice and hoping that the other man would pick up on it.

He felt Sherlock's eyes on him, sweeping across his face and down his body, before Sherlock took them further into the room to a set of chairs that hadn't been taken. They were further away from the apparatus at the front of the room, but the view was no less inhibited, giving John and Sherlock a clear line of sight that allowed them to see the sub's face and, when his trousers were removed, the ring that had been put on him at the base of his genitals, his erection visible to everyone in the room. John couldn't stop the sharp inhale of breath he took when he saw the cock-ring, eyes wide as he watched the Dom secure the blonde's wrists and ankles to the wood via the cuffs, and when John averted his eyes from the scene he realised his legs were trembling.

Sherlock pushed John down by his shoulders into one of the chairs, taking the seat next to him and pulling them closer together so he could keep one hand on John's shoulder in a possessive gesture. "Keep silent until I tell you otherwise," Sherlock said in a low voice, which wasn't low enough as far as John was concerned because the people just next to them, a woman with a man collared at her feet, were still close enough to hear Sherlock speak, but he didn't question the order.

Once everyone who was coming to the show was in the room, John heard the sound of the door closing behind them and then the Dom who'd invited them stepped onto the stage behind his sub, the people sitting on the chairs audibly quietening down when they saw that the scene was about to begin. It was the first time John had seen the dominant male in person and everything, from the way his dark hair fell rakishly into his eyes to the way he carried himself, spoke of a man who was in charge.

Completely.

Slowly, the man took off his jacket and draped it over the back of one of the empty chairs, reaching for the cuffs of his shirt and undoing them before working on the buttons down the front of it. Each one was slipped through its holder, exposing more toned, taut flesh that the subs in the room responded to in the minute tensing of their fingers, the way they bit their lips with their Doms whispering in their ears. The man didn't take his shirt all the way off, un-tucking it from his dress trousers and allowing the material to flow about his frame as he walked to a small side table outside of the view of the bound blonde, pausing to pursue the implements he would no doubt use.

After what seemed like an eternity to John, the Dom picked up three items; a blindfold, a leather paddle, and a pair of nipple clamps attached together by a rather heavy looking chain. John's eyes flicked to the chest of the man bent over the sawhorse and saw that the surface area was only just big enough to stop him from falling over either side. From the angle that Sherlock had chosen for them, John could see that the nipple was exposed on one side so it was reasonable to assume that the other nipple would also be uncovered, free for the other man to torment and abuse as he saw fit.

But not before he put the blindfold over the bound man's eyes, of course.

The blonde gasped sharply when the blindfold was tugged over his eyes, taking away one of the primary senses that he would have used to keep himself appraised of the scene he was partaking in and leaving him with the other, more basic senses. Touch… the feel of his Dom's hands on his flesh. Sound… John vividly remembered the noise the paddle made on the buttocks of the woman on the stage in the main room. This close, how would it differ? Taste… the sweat beading on his upper lip, his body helplessly perspiring with his excitement and the exertion from maintaining a single position for a long period of time.

_'Oh my God, what am I doing here?'_

After the blindfold was secured, the Dom swept a possessive thumb over the lips of the blonde, the other man unable to help his needs as his mouth tried to capture the thumb to suck on it, his Dom cruelly denying him that pleasure and giving him another instead; the sharp pinch of fingers on his nipples, the tips of nails tormenting the sensitive flesh until the blonde was whimpering and visibly shaking on the sawhorse, his cock jerking with each pinch and twist.

John shut his eyes against the scene, his own bottom lip coming beneath his teeth when he heard the first cry from the blonde as a clamp was secured into place, his own hands gripping his knees and wholly unable to stop his shaking. He couldn't have timed it any worse, opening his eyes just as the Dom put the other clamp on the second nipple, the one John could see, before tugging on the chain which hung underneath the sawhorse and making the blonde groan thickly at the sensation.

It was only that at this point that John realised the state of his own cock, which, with his own rising alarm, had become a warm, thick weight in his boxers. Hyperaware of the pulse of blood in the organ, each beat of his heart matching an answering throb in his trousers, John felt his face flush with shame but wasn't able to stop his body from responding to the outside stimulus. _'God, please don't let Sherlock see this.'_

With the sub sucking in deep breaths through his mouth, his Dom leant down to his ear so his lips were almost brushing the lobe of it and spoke into the awed silence of the people around them. "You're doing very well, Eric," he breathed, the words clear and carrying to every individual in the room although they were meant for Eric alone. The blonde sobbed once behind his blindfold, a single tear glinting as it dripped from behind the material and trailed down his cheek. "So very well," the other man continued, taking hold of the chain that held the clamps between his fingers and tugging on it again, his dark eyes watching as Eric's body struggled to remain balanced on the padding of the sawhorse even as it tried to balance the pain with pleasure.

John almost startled out of his seat when he felt fingers touch his left hand, which was still clasping his own knee, and when he looked down he saw that Sherlock's right hand had dropped down to touch John's flesh lightly and without pressure. When he looked up from the hand to Sherlock's face he felt his mouth drop open with the look in Sherlock's eyes, the colour of the detective's irises having darkened to a deep blue around the rims of his expanded pupils, and his focus so intense that John felt himself tremble again but from a completely different source.

The fingers on John's hand slipped up the sensitive flesh until they reached the cuff of his shirt where they slipped underneath the material, the pad of Sherlock's index finger effortlessly finding John's pulse-point; which meant, when the first strike of the paddle resounded in the room, the detective could feel it when John's pulse raced in response to it.

"Oh God," John whispered, the words tumbling from his mouth when the second strike from the paddle echoed in his ears, but he couldn't bring himself to look away from Sherlock's eyes which had pinned him into place, not even when Eric began to cry out with each strike as they increased in intensity.

"John…" Sherlock whispered his name in return, his gaze drinking in John's responses even as John tried to fight them, tried to halt the liquid fire in his groin which only demanded more, faster, harder, _make it hurt_…

"Please, Master," Eric pleaded from his position, the chains rattling as his body jerked with each hit of the paddle. "Please let me come, please…"

When John looked back at the stage, he no longer saw Eric tied down, helpless and writhing on the bench as he begged for completion; in his mind he saw himself restrained, could almost feel the burn of the leather on the cheeks of his arse as the paddle landed on his flesh; unable to find his release due to the cock-ring but wanting the pain more, wanting the heat and the tension caused by his Dom.

And when the Dom finally granted the permission Eric so desperately wanted, undoing the clasp on the cock-ring and saying, "Come for me," in his ear, John didn't hear the Dom's voice… In his mind, it was Sherlock.

Just Sherlock.

oOo

Less than two days after their more than memorable visit to the BDSM club, Sherlock had solved the case surrounding the kidnapping of the submissives and the people responsible for their trafficking were safely behind bars. Sherlock had been buzzing with energy since the case ended, but John had been rather subdued by the end of it, his mind out of sorts since his experience in the private booth with Eric and his Dom and completely lacking any coherent ability to pull himself out of it.

The one godsend John could be thankful for was that if Sherlock noticed his flatmate's behaviour, which he most likely did, he refrained from mentioning it, but it didn't stop John's subconscious mind from imagining the scene all over again in glorious Technicolor, albeit with two very different men.

_God_, the thought of Sherlock standing over him, skin flushed with the effort of hitting John with well-practised strokes and his breath panting from between his lips, eyes ablaze in his sockets as he hungrily drank in the image John presented to him. A pliant, obedient body for him to mark and claim so everyone would know who he belonged to…

John forced himself to concentrate on what he was doing, his fingers poised over the keys of his laptop as he tried to finish his latest blog entry of 'The Forced Submissives', but his mind was refusing to provide him with any detail of the case which he needed to complete it. It kept reminding him of other things which were no less important, like the fact that he was _straight _and _not submissive_ in any way, shape or form, although another part of his brain, the sensorial side, kept butting in and saying _you had a hard-on, John. You had one thinking about your flatmate hitting you. __**Hurting**__ you. _

It was becoming more difficult to shut that voice up but John gave himself a mental pat on the back whenever he managed it, counting it as a victory over the primal part of his brain and a triumph for the side that had previous experience and logic on its side, both hard-wearing allies and ones who were very good at counter attacks.

With a huff of frustration John pushed his laptop away from himself, standing up from the desk and stretching his back out before walking to the kitchen to get a glass of cool water. With his mind the way it was, there wasn't a hope in hell that he would be able to finish the blog before the night was through; it was something he would just have to tackle tomorrow after a good night's sleep.

"John?" Sherlock's voice came from behind him and when John turned to look at the other man he saw that Sherlock was dressed in his blue dressing gown (which had been done up at the waist) and faded pyjama bottoms, leaning against the wall just outside of the entry to the kitchen. "You've been avoiding me."

Trust Sherlock to jump straight to the point. "Have I?" John said, trying for ignorance and failing spectacularly at it given the scowl that Sherlock gave him.

"Yes, you have." Sherlock pushed himself up from the wall and crossed his arms, coming towards John and daring him with his eyes to move away, to prove him right.

John did no such thing, knowing a challenge when he saw it.

"It's because of the other night," Sherlock said, not bothering to phrase it as a question. "When we saw Eric and his Dom. You've been acting strangely since then and you're not talking to me. Is it because you're embarrassed?"

"Jeez," John hissed, putting his cup down on the side and wiping a hand over his eyes, inexplicably tired. "You're not going to let this go are you?" Sherlock didn't answer him, which was an answer in itself because of course he wasn't going to just 'let it go', not when it was so much more interesting to keep prodding. "Yes, ok," John said finally, pulling his hand away from his face to look Sherlock in the eye. "I was unbelievably embarrassed and, to top it off, I was harder than I ever have been in my entire life. Happy?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John's question before frowning. "Why would I be happy about it? John, your body reacted to the external stimuli it was experiencing, nothing more, and it's nothing to be ashamed of. I don't see why you've made such a big deal out of it."

"Because it's not me!" John snapped, his brows clenching on his forehead with his rise in temper. "I'm not into that, never have been and never will!"

Sherlock's eyes hardened, his mouth thinning into a taut line before he marched towards John and took a hold of his wrist without any sense of propriety. Neither man said anything; John was too shocked at Sherlock's blatant invasion of his personal space and Sherlock was focussed on something else entirely; the 'something else' being the pulse in John's wrist, the grip the same as the night of the BDSM club and too absorbed in using the concentration required to measure the rhythmic beat, beat, beat that mirrored the thumping of John's heart.

And, damn it all to hell, with Sherlock this close to him John was only thinking of one thing and he couldn't tear himself away from it even if he'd wanted to. His mind's eye saw the flush on Sherlock's face when the other man realised how much the bondage scene was affecting him; could see the way Sherlock's own eyes reflected that arousal and need that John was so sure hadn't been just an echo of his own confused and frustrated sexual desires. That, and the rush of shame and anger he felt at the betrayal of his own body, yearning for something that he had never even thought of before and, now that he had witnessed it, wanting to experience it with the same intensity that they'd seen through the power-play which had been completely unplanned for.

Sherlock turned his head towards John's own briefly, locking eyes with him and giving John the heady impression that he'd seen and heard every thought in his own head, before murmuring a single word. "Liar." Abruptly, John felt the hand at his wrist come away from his skin, leaving behind a tingling sensation that took a while to fade, and all the while Sherlock was still talking to him.

"You can lie to yourself to your heart's content, John, but you cannot, no, you _will not_ lie to me." Sherlock stepped away from him, walking towards the exit that would take him to his own room and pausing to look back at John. "When you're ready to discuss this in the way an adult would, you know where to find me, because there is one thing I can promise you, my dear doctor. None of this is happening unless you ask me for it."

John didn't need Sherlock to elaborate what 'this' was, swallowing around the lump in his throat and nodding stiffly when he realised that his flatmate was waiting for a response. Apparently Sherlock was satisfied with that, turning and walking to his room, the sound of his bedroom door shutting loud in the space that he'd left behind.

_To be continued_

**A/N: A big thank you again to the people who have read and supported this work! I'm thrilled you're enjoying it and believe me when I say I'm as excited as you are! The fun is just starting!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.**

Part Three

Contrary to what John thought would happen over the next week, Sherlock proved (somewhat remarkably) that when he said it was John's decision to make the first move, he actually meant it. John didn't hear a peep out of the other man when Sherlock emerged from his bedroom the next morning, other than his customary demand for tea, before he flopped down onto the sofa and flicked through the morning newspaper to look for any interesting reports that might lead to a new case.

That didn't mean that there was anything interesting to read, however, and the newspaper had soon been flung across the room without so much as a by-your-leave directed to John who, incidentally, had wanted to read the paper after Sherlock was finished with it.

Eventually, when Sherlock was lucky enough to find a case that was above a seven, John found he was taken along as normal and used as Sherlock's sounding board for his deductions. If Sherlock was feeling particularly generous during those cases, he actively encouraged John to make his own judgements on the crime scene despite Lestrade's misgivings and, if Sherlock said, "Excellent, John," in a way that made John flush under the collar of his jacket, the detective had the grace not to mention it.

It seemed that, as far as Sherlock was concerned, everything was back to normal; as though they'd never seen the bondage scene at the club; as though Sherlock hadn't felt the physical proof of John's excitement from the beat of his heart, or heard the strangled whisper John had made when the noise from the paddle made his cock twitch.

Having said that, John knew that his own perception of reality was very different from the detective's and forgetting the whole experience was far more difficult than John could readily admit to. When they came back from the club the first time, John had walked into the living room and sat on his chair with a heavy sigh, trying to flush the adrenaline from his system and delete the entire evening from his memory. And, up to a point, he'd been succeeding.

Only to have all his efforts wasted when he saw that Sherlock had left his riding crop on his own chair, the handle resting on the padding of the seat while the fold of leather at its tip was pointing to the mirror above the fireplace. John had berated himself quite badly at his foresight to stoke the fire before they left, hoping to have just a nice, warm flat to come into once they were finished and instead feeling another hot flush come over him when he saw how the firelight bathed the leather in front of him. It could have been his state of mind at the time, but the way the firelight had been on the leather… It was almost like the light had been caressing it. And when the snap of the logs sounded particularly loud, John imagined that that was just what the leather would sound like if it made contact on his skin...

It was only when he'd realised what direction his thoughts had taken that he told himself to get a grip and go to bed, for it had gone midnight by the time Sherlock had finished his investigation at the club, but it had still taken the draw of a large scotch to help him get to sleep. Even it was restless in the end, resulting in him tossing and turning on his pillow throughout the night before waking up and finding his sheets soaked in a cold sweat, his panting breaths resounding in his ears and his cock a rigid, throbbing reminder of the turn his dreams had taken.

The morning after the first night, when John had finally worked up the courage to leave his room, Sherlock had asked John if he'd had any nightmares. "You were quite loud last night," Sherlock had elaborated. "I briefly considered coming up to wake you."

John had nodded dumbly to Sherlock's flash of concern, agreeing that it had been another nightmare, but that didn't mean that Sherlock needed to know what the subject matter had been. Not when the ghosts of half remembered sensations still danced across John's skin; the slow drag of a finger across his neck and collar bone; the scratch of nails on the inner skin of his thighs, making them twitch and reflexively open in the welcoming gesture for more. God help him, the smooth tenor of a voice much deeper than his own whispering lewd, filthy things in his ear, each word a declaration of praise, of promises made between French silk sheets and the bite of leather around his wrists, holding him in place for the man who wanted him to ache and hurt and beg for them until his throat was raw from it and his flesh was a tapestry of hidden sobs just waiting to be voiced. His dream-self had known how much it was going to hurt, the slightest touch from a fingertip to any part of his body, and still he'd begged for it, unable to see because of the blindfold but _needing it_, like his lungs needed air and without it he would die, suffocated by his own desire.

It had taken a force of will that John had spent the rest of the day honing and harnessing to get right, but eventually it came to the point where he could listen to Sherlock speak and not have to worry about unwanted erections at inopportune of times.

During the subsequent week there was just one thing left over from that night that John hadn't been able to vanquish no matter how much he tried (except for the dreams which were being stubbornly persistent), and that was his own awakened curiosity. Without his permission, his thoughts often wandered back to the scene between Eric and his Dom, remembering how Eric had responded to the bite of the clamps on his nipples and the cries of his voice as the paddle turned the colour of his arse to a bright shade of red. He remembered the way Sherlock's hand had felt on the small of his back, a comforting presence in a world that Sherlock understood more than John did, and a possessive touch on his body that, when he thought about, left a warm feeling at the base of his spine that had nothing to do with the heat left over from when Sherlock's hand had been there.

So, almost a week after their visit to the club, John had his laptop opened on his legs and was hesitantly researching a new topic using the Google search engine. He typed four letters into the search bar, each letter a capital, and when he was finished John stared at the screen for another minute, swallowing around the frog in his throat before he hit 'enter'. The results came up almost immediately, with the search for 'BDSM' displaying about one hundred and seventy-eight million links and leaving John with a fluttery feeling in his chest, before he clicked on the first link that had come up to show Wikipedia offering a very helpful description of what BDSM is to the outsider:

**_'BDSM_**_ represents a continuum of practices and expressions, both erotic and non-erotic, involving restraint, sensory stimulation, role-playing, and a variety of interpersonal dynamics. Given the wide range of practices, some of which may be engaged in by people who don't consider themselves as practicing BDSM, inclusion in the BDSM community and/or subculture is usually dependent on self-identification and shared experience. Interest in BDSM can range from one-time experimentation to a lifestyle, and some debate has begun over whether a BDSM or kink sexual identity also constitutes a form of sexual orientation. '_

Ok, that much John understood, having had one girlfriend in his life who liked having her arse swatted a few times when he took her from behind, but Wikipedia didn't have exactly what it was he was looking for. In all fairness, he didn't actually know what it was he was searching for as he had no familiarity whatsoever in being a sub. He could only draw on his experience of what he'd seen and heard at the club, but even than it was hard to grasp that his body was into this, that a primal part of his mind was responding to it.

After pursuing several websites, John decided that there had to be better ways to understand what it was he was after, if he was really after anything at all, because he was truly shocked by what he'd seen on the websites and they left a sick feeling in his stomach rather than the burning heat that he'd had when he watched Eric being bound and blindfolded over the sawhorse.

He looked at the time, seeing that it was only just seven in the evening, and set about getting ready to leave Baker Street for a few hours.

oOo

Thirty minutes later, John stepped out of the taxi after paying the driver and walked up to the BDSM club that Sherlock and he had visited just last week, self-consciously checking his freshly ironed shirt and pressed trousers to ensure that they had no creases as he neared the main entrance. The guards standing outside the door gave him a brief once-over, checking his ID (security had been stepped up by the new owners when they realised submissives were still in high demand by the wrong people) and motioning him inside once they recognised who he was.

Things had barely changed since the last time he was here, John saw, and he quickly set about scanning the area for the individuals he was seeking. It was a gamble coming back here; he knew that because the two people he was looking for might not even be here. He knew that he had to try to find them though, preferably before he had a nervous breakdown.

Looking around the main hall, he knew he definitely wasn't comfortable in this environment, _'too green,' _his mind accused, and, without Sherlock to back him up, he felt cut adrift amongst the people who looked like they were from another world altogether. He felt he couldn't go to the bar because, in his world, that meant you were either with someone, waiting for someone or wanted to pick someone up for the night, and he wasn't really any of those, nor was he really sure just what rules applied here. But standing out in the middle of the room would look ridiculous, just as it would if he wandered around aimlessly. In the end, he opted to lean against one of the pillars overlooking the stage, his gaze sweeping the area occasionally but not trying to make direct eye-contact with anyone.

As it happened, John didn't need to worry about finding Eric or his Dom because, coincidentally, they found him first. Eric was the first to spot him, his mouth tilting up in a smile from where he was kneeled on the floor before he discreetly got his Dom's attention, pointing out John to the other man. The Dom looked back at Eric after singling John out, perhaps telling him to stay put, and excused himself from the people he was in conversation with before coming over to where John was standing.

"Hello again," the man said once he was close enough, offering out his hand for John to shake. "We were never properly introduced before, were we? My name is William Dawson but I prefer 'Will'."

John found the man's grip to be strong, as he suspected it would be, but it made him think of other things that felt inappropriate despite where he was. "Hello," he replied, unsure of how to address the other man and deciding to keep his greeting short. Will must have sensed it, John's unease, because he looked around the room for a moment and John realised that the other man was looking for Sherlock. "He isn't here," John said, drawing Will's attention back to himself. "I came on my own."

Will frowned. "That's unusual behaviour for a submissive," he said to John, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his trousers. "Does your Dom know you're here?"

"No," John said, inwardly wincing when the Will's face darkened. "Look, it's not like that, it's…" He paused, more than a little frustrated. "The man I came with wasn't my Dom. I'm not even a submissive; I've never had a Dom."

Will smiled, his face lightening with John words. "Well, you certainly gave us a different impression when you were last here, Dr Watson, but I hear that Mr Holmes can be quite the actor when he needs to be." He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture when he saw John looked a little shocked. "Dr Watson… John, may I call you John? The news of your success in preventing the kidnapping of the submissives here didn't stay silent for long, you know. Everyone at this establishment who has half a brain cell knows who you are because they read your Blog, although I've yet to understand why you're here. You can't really play with the animals; they do bite on occasion."

It took John a moment to understand that Will was referring to the people at the club and smiled, if a bit awkwardly. "Look, um, you're right that I've got no idea what I'm doing and Sherlock doesn't even know I'm here…" He paused again, running a hand through his hair and deciding to just come out with it. "It's about the night that you invited us to your show; the scene with your sub, Eric. I wanted to talk to you about that, if it's ok. With you and Eric. I don't know what the protocol is or anything but I don't even know what it is I'm looking for…" John trailed off, not able to finish his sentence because the words just wouldn't come.

Will held up a hand to stop John from saying anything further, smiling a little in amusement. "There is no protocol, John, you needn't worry. It's perfectly all right to ask questions and I'm sure Eric will be happy to answer any that you have. I'm assuming that you have specific questions regarding the role of a submissive rather than a Dominant?"

"I … don't know." John rubbed a hand over his eyes, suddenly wishing that he hadn't come here. "I don't know why I'm even here."

He felt a hand take hold of his arm and pull his hand away from his eyes, looking up to see Will looking at him in earnest. "It's ok, John. We've all been where you are." Will looked behind him and motioned to Eric who'd been sitting there watching them, and John could only stare when the young man raised himself to his feet with a grace that he'd only ever seen Sherlock use. Eric didn't waste any time, coming up to them swiftly but with an the air of the unhurried individual; one who took as much time as needed to get the job done properly without becoming flustered.

When Eric reached Will's side, Will raised his hand and placed it around the back of Eric's neck, the grip soft, but possessive, and making Eric relax almost completely into it. John didn't realise that he'd held his breath when he watched Will place his hand on his sub, and was completely unprepared for the pang of longing he felt at seeing the claim of ownership, reminiscent of the hand Sherlock had placed at his back so long ago, but somehow it lacked the same intensity.

The two men didn't say anything through the contact; they didn't need to, John realised with a sharp intake of breath. Everything was there for people to see if they knew what to look for; the way Eric leaned subtly towards Will, as though he was helplessly attracted to him by more than the physical side of their relationship; the way Will responded to it, brushing his lips along Eric's temple and maintaining the clasp around the back of his neck. The bond between the two men made John feel uncomfortable because of the intimacy of it, he realised. They knew each other inside and out, how to respond to each other's needs, and the adoration that Eric looked at Will with couldn't be denied. The feel of his Master close to him, the scent of him, the overwhelming need to serve and be served; opposite ends of the spectrum, somehow made to meet harmoniously somewhere in-between.

"What do you see, John?" Will asked, his lips still pressed lightly to Eric's head. "Where do you see yourself?" Before John could answer him, Will turned his head so he was looking into John's eyes. "Do you see Sherlock beneath you, waiting for your every command, your every breath?" Using a hand gesture that only Will and Eric could have known, Eric knelt once again to his knees in front of them and bowed his head with his hands crossed at his wrists in front of him. Will began to walk around him slowly, letting Eric feel his Dom's eyes on his body, obedient, an open receptacle for the will of his Master.

"What do you see?" Will repeated softly, brushing a hand through Eric's hair and bringing it to rest on the back of Eric's neck.

John soon realised that Will was asking him a direct question, and when Will undid the first few buttons and pulled away the collar of the shirt Eric was wearing, John almost felt his knees buckle beneath him. Under the collar, and just visible on Eric's back when John peered over for a closer look, there were whip marks. John couldn't tell what instrument had caused them, but the lines that he saw were vivid in the lighting of the club, and Eric didn't try to restrain the whimper he gave when Will brushed a finger over one of them.

"He asked me for every single one," Will murmured, doing up Eric's shirt again and looking back at John with fervour in his eyes. "And I gave them to him without hesitation or regret."

"Oh God," John said, his voice shaky and his hands trembling by his sides, aching with a want he hadn't known existed until now, unable to take his eyes away from Eric's kneeling form and the whip marks that must have been like lashings of fire on his body. How much had it burnt? How much did it strip away until there was nothing left inside but the pain? _And why did that sound so good?_ "What's wrong with me?"

Will came over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, an action meant to calm and soothe. "Go home, John. You won't find the all the answers you seek here but, although you may not understand why you feel this way, hopefully you're beginning to realise why the desire needs to be fulfilled." He tapped Eric twice on the shoulder, a signal for him to rise as the sub again got to his feet. "We hope to see you again when you have your answers."

John nodded, watching as the two men took their leave of him, before almost running from the building in his haste to reach Baker Street.

oOo

Sherlock was waiting for him when John got back to the flat, although perhaps 'waiting' was the wrong word. The detective was lying on the sofa again in his dressing gown, his hands under his chin in his thinking pose, and John couldn't take his eyes off him.

"Have fun?" Sherlock asked, lifting the lid of one eye to look at John's face and frowning when he saw the look that John had on him. "John?"

John heard his name spoken but he didn't know how to respond to it, couldn't sort through the chaos in his head that left him feeling bewildered and very unstable. "I went back to the club," he said finally, watching as Sherlock pushed himself up to a sitting position on the sofa before taking the space that Sherlock had cleared for him.

"Why did you go back?" Sherlock asked, although John knew that Sherlock already knew what the answer was but wanted to hear it on John's terms.

"I went and saw Eric and Will, the Dom and sub from the scene we saw the first night," he murmured, wringing his hands together in front of him with his elbows on his knees. "I thought they might be able to help me make sense of it all."

Sherlock shifted beside him, mimicking John's position on the sofa. "And did they help you with anything?"

John went to shake his head in the negative, but felt his whole body freeze before he could start the action. It was wrong to say that they hadn't helped him, but they hadn't given him any answers, not any that he could go away with and say that the decision had been made for him. Will had answered John's question with another question, numerous ones in fact, and John soon realised that Will wanted him to think about it. An answer wasn't an answer that came from someone else, because that was their answer to the question, not yours. Yours had to come from within. "Will showed me a part of Eric's back; it had whip marks on it."

Sherlock didn't say anything, sensing that John hadn't finished and was waiting for him to continue.

"I don't know how I feel about this, Sherlock," John said, turning to look his flatmate in the eye. "I can't stop thinking about the whip marks, or the paddling. The blindfolds and cuffs. All of it. It's dancing around in my head and I can't get it out."

Sherlock looked away from John's eyes for a moment, staring into the fireplace and rubbing the flats of his hands together under his chin. "You've never felt anything like this before, correct? You only had the realisation that there was something more when we saw Eric and Will perform for us." Sherlock paused, curling his fingers into a set of fists in front of him and closing his eyes. "Your dreams weren't nightmares," Sherlock said suddenly, opening his eyes and staring back at John. "You were dreaming about something else."

"Yes." There was no reason to deny it now, John thought to himself, not with the conversation he was having. "Something else entirely."

"Why didn't you say something, John?" Sherlock asked him, turning his body so his profile was facing him directly. "You could have spoken to me about it. I promised that I wouldn't do anything to you."

John chuckled in his throat, looking away from Sherlock and shaking his head. "Sherlock, when I think about it, I think that's _exactly_ why I didn't go to you. It took every ounce of will I had in me not to go to you and ask you for something, anything, to make it all go away; the anger at my own body because of its reaction to the scene, the emotions I was feeling over something that by all rights should have scarred me for life but instead did the exact opposite."

"It made you wonder what it would be like to be dominated in such a way," Sherlock murmured, his voice lowering an octave that made the hairs on John's arms stand up under his shirt. "But it's not just domination by anyone. You wondered what it would be like to be dominated by another man."

John couldn't suppress the shiver he felt at hearing the words come from Sherlock's mouth, but it didn't stop his instinctual need to reassert the label that he had always thought applied to himself. "But I'm straight!"

Sherlock didn't say anything to John's outburst, his eyes focussing off in the distance, and leaving John to wonder exactly where he'd disappeared to. After a short space of time Sherlock seemed to come back to himself, turning back to John and taking his face in his hands, his fingers cool on John's skin. "Close your eyes."

Unthinkingly, John did as he was asked; his own implicit trust in Sherlock making obeying the request an easy thing to do. "You're not going to try and make me remember something again, are you?" John asked, remembering the incident outside the train line during the Blind Banker case.

"Not exactly," Sherlock replied, before John felt the press of another pair of lips against his own, the pressure light and tentative.

He opened his eyes at the contact, his hands coming to Sherlock's wrists although he made no move to take Sherlock's hands away from his face, and when he saw that Sherlock had closed his eyes he felt guilty for opening his own, but wasn't sure why. It didn't stop his lips from responding to the press of Sherlock's, however, something that made Sherlock gasp into John's mouth before Sherlock took John's lower lip between his own, sucking on it gently and making John's body come alive under the delicate touch.

It was too much and not enough all at once, for when Sherlock ended the kiss, John felt his mouth straining towards Sherlock's lips to keep the contact going. "You're not gay," Sherlock said, opening his eyes to look into John's own. "You're not bisexual. But you are attracted to me."

"Yes," John whispered, shutting his eyes when one of Sherlock's hands slid from the side of his face and curled around the back of his neck, the memory almost painful when he remembered seeing the same grasp around Eric's neck by his Dom. "Please, Sherlock." God, he didn't even know what he was asking for. "Please, I don't…"

"Ssh," Sherlock whispered, bringing their bodies closer as he pressed their foreheads together. "It's going to be all right, John. You don't need to worry about anything."

"But, Sherlock? God, when are we doing this? When does it start?"

"It's already started, John." Sherlock pulled back from his face, causing John to open his eyes to see where the other man was going, which meant he saw the glint in Sherlock's eyes when Sherlock took his hands from John's body. "I want to stand up in front of me," Sherlock said, the words soft and clear in the room. "And I want you to strip until there's nothing left for you to hide behind. You're going to take off your clothes for me so I can see every inch of you. How far we go after you're naked is up to you, but you don't have a choice for this part. Do you understand?"

John felt his eyes close weakly at the order, unable to keep them open as he felt an answering weakness inside his own body answer Sherlock's words; felt it unfurl itself inside him and bask in the lack of control, the now unnecessary requirement to make a decision. It was definitely a new sensation, one that had John trembling with just a little anxiety because he'd always attributed the loss of control with danger.

Oh… _Oh…_ It was starting to make sense now, but he couldn't reflect on it for too long. Sherlock was waiting for an answer. He opened his eyes and found Sherlock looking at him patiently, without hesitance or worry over this unexplored territory, and it made his answer that much easier to say. "Yes, Sherlock."

_To be continued_

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favourited and followed this story! You are all awesome! :D**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.**

**A/N: Thank to everyone for your support! :D:D:D The response has been fantastic and I'm thrilled you're enjoying it! I hope this part lives up to expectations ;-)**

Part Four

John got to his feet somehow, his conscious mind oblivious to the change between sitting and standing because it felt like all his muscles had turned to jelly and he desperately didn't want to fall over, didn't want to make himself look like an idiot with how much he was _wanting_ this. When he was standing in front of Sherlock he became aware of his legs shaking beneath him, a faint tremor, and could hear the sound of his breathing in his ears which sounded far too fast. Yet these sensations were nothing compared to the feeling of Sherlock's eyes watching his every move.

The other man was still sitting on the sofa and had leaned back against the cushions, his left arm draped casually over the back of the sofa while his right arm was resting on his right knee. It was a position that had been carefully chosen, John thought, because Sherlock knew it took John effort to take his eyes away from where Sherlock's hand was on his knee, bringing the realness of that hand into sharp focus. What would it be doing to him? How much would he have to beg for it to _do something_ to him?

Sherlock's left arm, however, felt the complete opposite of his right. While his right arm spoke of dominance and control, having his other arm across the back of the sofa opened the left side of Sherlock's body in a way that made John want to crawl into the space, to have that arm wrapped around him to … what? Remind him of who owned him? Comfort him through his tears, or was that something that the right hand would do? Would the hand that inflicted the pain be the one to soothe as well as torment?

Belatedly he realised that he was meant to be undressing, but that brought with it a whole new scope of questions. Did Sherlock want John's eyes on his own while he was doing it, or did he want John to concentrate on the task at hand? Did he want it to done quickly or slowly? John knew that Sherlock could see his predicament but the other man didn't say anything, meeting his eyes when John finally looked at him with an intensity that made John shiver.

Right… concentrate on each button of the shirt. Look at Sherlock every so often to make sure he was doing it right … God, was he doing it right? Did Sherlock like what he was seeing; John's fumbling through his shirt buttons with fingers that refused to bend to his will, or the way he had bit his lower lip between his teeth, struggling through all of it because he couldn't make sense of it with the fire in his veins and the storm in his head?

John had been so caught up in his own mind that he didn't notice it at first when his hands had stopped moving, and it was only when he looked down at them that he saw that Sherlock had stopped him. Sherlock had stood up from the sofa into John's personal space and taken John's hands in his own, stilling any movement and waiting until John came back to himself, came back to the reality of it. With Sherlock's hands on his skin, John felt the whirlwind in his brain break and subside, a whisper among the debris left behind which made him feel awkward and dizzy.

"Stay with me, John," Sherlock said, bringing John's attention back to him. "Keep your eyes on me and don't move until I tell you."

John exhaled a shuddery breath at the relief that the order made him feel, nodding to Sherlock's command and keeping his eyes open as Sherlock decided to finish what John had only just started. But it wasn't a quick affair, not the way he'd seen Sherlock undress before, all business-like without any unnecessary pauses. This was something different.

Sherlock moved his hands to the cuffs of John's shirt, undoing them with ease and placing the cuffs on the coffee table beside them before resuming where John had left off. The first feather-light touch of Sherlock's right hand to the area just below the opening of his shirt made John catch his breath, almost afraid to move in case he dislodged it by accident, and the warmth of those fingertips seeped through the fabric, teasing his skin with the promise of more. The first button Sherlock came to was opened without any fuss, but when the button was dealt with Sherlock's fingertips stayed where they were, gently parting the gap made in John's shirt and delicately brushing the skin on John's chest.

No, the pauses here weren't unnecessary, not in the slightest. Each one was exquisitely controlled, left just long enough to make John hyper-aware of the contact before Sherlock moved onto the next button. Oh yes, John was being teased, left completely helpless to the control that Sherlock was exerting over him, and the fact that the man hadn't even finished undoing his shirt yet forced John to acknowledge the power that the detective had over him.

"We haven't discussed whether or not you'll need a safe word," Sherlock murmured, continuing to undo John's shirt as he spoke and leaving John with the uncomfortable sensation of being torn between two things that each required his utmost attention; what Sherlock was saying and what he was doing. "For now, if you want me to stop at any time, all you need to do is say so and whatever we're doing will cease immediately. If we're in agreement that this is the sort of relationship we both want afterwards, we can look into the specifics later."

John nodded to Sherlock's words although his agreement hadn't been specifically asked for, but it seemed rude not to respond, not when Sherlock had, in all fairness, established a boundary that hadn't been there before. He wasn't sure how he felt about it, being given the option to say no, but if he really did decide that this was what he wanted with Sherlock, they would need to establish safe words and hand signals just in case he was gagged and couldn't say the words, knowing that Sherlock would be watching him and testing his limits… John choked on a moan, his eyes closing briefly at the ache that spread through him.

It couldn't have been more than two minutes when Sherlock finally finished undoing his shirt, but to John it felt like an eternity had passed, his base mind living only for the next touch, the next command, with everything after that being pointless. Sherlock brought his left arm into play, bringing both his hands to the lapels of John's shirt and using them to open it even further, exposing John's chest to the air of the flat which had been kept warm by the fire in the hearth. To John's increasing impatience though, Sherlock had yet to touch him, _really_ touch him, and all he could think of was those hands on his body although he wasn't sure what it was he actually wanted.

He looked up into Sherlock's eyes again, seeing the trace of desire in those bright blue eyes (were those eyes blue today or was it a trick of the light?) and John realised that Sherlock knew exactly what he was going through and was enjoying it. He wanted John to ache for it, the need for more of whatever this was, this new reality; he wanted John to crave it so keenly that he would feel it in his bones.

And with that craving came the delicate balance that John also knew Sherlock wanted. Yes, it was ok for him to want this, to beg for it, but it wasn't ok if he allowed himself to become overruled by it, enough that it made him disobey an order or caused Sherlock displeasure, and why did that thought send a twisting sensation through his guts, the very image of Sherlock's face looking down at him not with praise but with dismissal?

John whimpered in his throat when the heat of Sherlock's hands through the fabric became boiling, and he watched as Sherlock slid his hands across the skin of his shoulders, carrying the undone shirt on his wrists until the shirt was on the floor behind John, leaving his upper body bare to the perusal of Sherlock's all-seeing, all-knowing gaze. He swore to himself that he could almost feel it, the burn left on his flesh from where Sherlock's eyes traced over his skin, memorising the exact placement of each hair on his chest and the way his skin was pulled taut over his pectoral muscles.

Sherlock's hands left his body for the space of a breath, his fingers seeking the clasp on John's trousers and tickling his stomach as those digits undid the buttons at the top and gripped the buckle of the zip. It was there that Sherlock paused again, and John looked to the other man to see what it was that Sherlock wanted, soon finding that Sherlock was asking him if this was ok, but not in so many words. The hunger hadn't diminished though and John's whispered, "Please," spurred Sherlock's hands into action, sliding the zip down its teeth until his trousers were loose around his hips.

John's attention had never been so enraptured, expecting another slow exploration but taken by surprise when Sherlock's hands took both the hem of his trousers and his boxers and pulled them down, adjusting the clothing for John's erection which sprung free once it escaped its confines, and motioning for John to step out of them when the boxers and trousers were around his ankles. John did as asked, pulling his feet free and holding each one up so Sherlock could remove his socks too, until he was standing naked in the living room of their flat with the detective taking the clothes and putting them back onto the sofa behind them.

And if John thought having Sherlock's eyes on his upper torso left burn marks where they touched him before, he was being scorched by the heat of the sun itself when he felt Sherlock's eyes on the other, more sensitive parts of his body. His erection twitched under the attention, not aching yet, but John had the feeling that it wouldn't remain that way for long. He _hoped_ it wouldn't be left that way for long.

But Sherlock wasn't looking at his cock anymore. He was looking at John's face, watching carefully for any signs of distress or anxiety at being naked with another man who still had the tight clasp of a dressing gown keeping his own body from view. John had never been more aware of it, his vulnerability in his nudity, but, instead of making him tense and nervous, the complete lack of control made his shoulders relax and his arms hang down by his sides, his fingers loose and lightly curled towards the palms.

Sherlock began to move then, his keen gaze seeing the signs of John's relaxed state, and John kept his eyes staring straight ahead when Sherlock moved from his line of vision, the wallpaper on the wall in front of him blurring before his eyes and becoming a mass of indistinguishable colours and patterns. His other senses were so attuned to Sherlock's presence just than that John was surprised he couldn't read the detective's thoughts; he knew that Sherlock was looking at him, looking at his whole body from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, and leaving nothing out in-between. He didn't use his hands and John didn't know whether to be relieved by that or not, even when Sherlock came to his back and stood behind him.

_Oh…_ He was using his hands now, or a hand to be precise, and Sherlock had put his fingertips onto the scar at the back of John's left shoulder. Sherlock was looking at the exit wound the bullet had made when it left his body, the scar so much more livid on his back unlike the entry wound which was a small, taut circle that pulled at him when the weather turned cold. "Be still," Sherlock murmured, the sound of his voice shocking John back into focus, and with that focus came the realisation that he'd been pushing his body back into Sherlock's fingers, wanting more pressure and his body had answered the demand for it.

"I'm sorry," John whispered, the words catching in his throat and making it hurt, but Sherlock was shushing him, coming back around to John's front and using his fingers to tilt John's head up until he could look Sherlock in the eye.

"You're doing so well, John," Sherlock said, keeping his fingers on the skin of John's chin so he could see the flush which spread over John's cheeks and down his throat at the words. "Yes… You feel it, don't you, I can see it on you. You want to do well."

"Yes, Sherlock," John replied, the words becoming easier to say all the time. "I want to please you."

Sherlock smiled, a small one that tilted just the corners of his mouth up, before he took his hand away from John's chin and brought the first two fingers of his right hand to John's mouth. "Then you can deduce what to do now, can't you."

The pads of Sherlock's fingers traced his bottom lip with the barest of pressure, not forcing exactly but more encouraging John to open his mouth to allow those fingers inside him.

_'Inside me… He wants to be inside me…'_ The thought made him moan in his chest, pulling his lips apart from one another to grant entrance to Sherlock's fingers and they didn't hesitate, sliding into the moistness of his mouth and pressing down on his tongue.

"Get them wet," Sherlock whispered, his pupils blown in his eyes until they almost eclipsed the blue of his irises; John couldn't look away from them, not even when the taste of Sherlock's fingers exploded on his taste-buds. The salty tang of skin in his mouth, the musk and flavour of something undeniably Sherlock pressing in on the inside of his cheeks and around his teeth as he twined his tongue around the two fingers, dipping into the space between them and working to ensure every millimetre of their surface was covered in a thin layer of his saliva.

He didn't try to suck them. If he was completely honest with himself, he wasn't sure that the act of sucking Sherlock's fingers wouldn't make the other man want to use John's mouth on another part of the body that responded well to the same motions, and John just couldn't see himself in that position. With his lips pursed around the head of a cock that its owner wanted to use to fill his mouth with hot, hard flesh, using John for his pleasure and holding onto John's head to hold him in place for the man, for _Sherlock_, as he began to fuck down his throat.

John felt his cock jerk against his stomach muscles, his eyes widening in surprise when he felt the wetness at the tip smear on his skin at the mental image of Sherlock fucking his face, his lips having already followed his train of thought and suckling with a little pressure on the fingers in his mouth. Sherlock's eyes stayed on his all the while his fingers were in John's mouth and he began to move his hand away from John's face, withdrawing his fingers as he did so.

John circled his tongue around the tip of those fingers as they left his mouth, replacing the saliva that he'd unintentionally sucked off of them during his fantasy (was it a fantasy if he wasn't ready to indulge it?) and watching Sherlock with wide eyes when the hand drifted to his chest and down to his right nipple.

"Relax," Sherlock soothed, rubbing the spit-slick fingers over the nub and coaxing it into hardness before moving onto his left nipple to garner the same reaction. "I knew what you were thinking of the moment you began to suck my fingers, but we both know you're not ready for that yet so there's no need to worry."

John would have nodded, an acknowledgement of the fact that he'd at least heard Sherlock speak to him, if it weren't for Sherlock's fingers returning to his right nipple and catching it between his fingers and thumb, plucking at the hard flesh before gripping it from the base and twisting in a sharp pinch that had John gasping.

"Ohhh God…" John moaned, the clever tips of those fingers leaving one nipple and moving onto the other, giving it the same attention until his chest throbbed at those small points, each beat of his heart pulsing blood through the sensitive little nubs and intensifying the ache that Sherlock had put there. He'd never thought of his nipples as particularly sensitive because more often than not his previous partners were more interested in his cock, but Sherlock seemed to have a fascination for them, bringing up his left hand so he could play with both of them at the same time. When he felt John was ready for it, he used the edges of his nails on his index fingers and thumbs to press into the nipples at their bases before plucking at them again, and each pull of those nails on his chest made John groan in his throat with the pain that intensified with each movement of Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock finished playing with his nipples after what seemed a lifetime, but John couldn't decide whether the noise that came from his mouth was one that pleaded _stop _or _more._ His cock throbbed at his groin, each jerk a testament to his arousal over the nipple play and the sharp bursts of pain that lingered on his skin, but he also knew that this was just the start of what he'd seen at the club and on those websites. Nipple torture wasn't even thought of as hard-core by the people that considered BDSM a lifestyle, more a warm-up for the activities to come, but John was still unsure about the direction that he wanted to take, the path that would feel right for him.

Another pinch from Sherlock to his left hip brought him sharply to attention as it was meant to, for the action hadn't been pleasurable in any way, just a reminder of what he was supposed to be focussing on. "John," Sherlock said, keeping that hand on his hip as he spoke. "Trust me." No further elaboration was offered by Sherlock, just a deep look into John's eyes that strengthened the connection that John could feel building between them. This felt like more than lust or sex, not just because they hadn't gotten that far, but also because he had to trust that Sherlock knew how far to take it, to push John's boundaries past what he thought he was capable of.

"Sherlock…" he whispered, gasping in a stuttering breath when Sherlock placed his right hand on the centre of John's chest, feeling his heartbeat. "God, this is…"

"Yes…" Sherlock responded, keeping his hand where it was as he leant forward, bringing their faces closer together until they were breathing each other in. "It is. Are you ready for the next part?"

"God, yes," John said breathlessly, wanting to kiss Sherlock and feel their lips pressing against each other, but he'd been told not to move and it was getting to the point that he really wanted to.

"You have a choice," Sherlock murmured, sliding his hand down John's chest in a smooth, slow glide and stopping just before he was just about to brush against John's cock. The nearness of Sherlock's hand to his hardness made John's need to find release rocket inside of him, but he knew he couldn't move, knew he wasn't allowed to. "I do want you to cum from this," Sherlock said, seeing John's internal struggle, "but the way you'll do it is up to you. You can stand here and jerk yourself off with your hands without me touching you. I'll be watching you from the sofa to see how you pleasure yourself and how long it takes you to get there. Or," his hand brushed back up John's torso and brushed across one of his nipples lightly, the pain from the gentle touch making John breathe in sharply and wince even as his cock loved it. "Or," Sherlock whispered, "you can have my nails on your chest, making you hurt… Making you beg for release. And when I think you're ready, you can bring yourself to orgasm with my fingers on your nipples, tugging at them through each pulse of your cock."

Sherlock stepped away from John, a single step back out of his personal space, and John whimpered at the loss of it, that closeness of the other man who he was steadily growing to rely on. _God,_ how did he even choose? He wanted to cum; his balls felt heavy and full from all the sensations up to this point and he knew he wouldn't last five strokes if he got to use his own hands. But the thought of Sherlock's hands on him again, teasing him, drawing out the agony on his nipples until he was sobbing with it and only then giving him permission to finish… How much would it hurt, how would the feel of Sherlock's nails on his skin affect his orgasm?

"Have you made a decision, John?" Sherlock asked, nothing in his tone suggesting that he wanted it one way or the other except for the fact that when John looked at Sherlock he could see how much Sherlock was restraining himself, wanting to hold John down until he was broken and sobbing on the floor.

"You," John said; his voice raw in his throat. "I want you, God please; I want your hands on me. Please, Sherlock…"

The detective didn't even speak to John at first after he'd made his decision, stepping back towards him and bringing his hands to John's nipples again. "So beautiful," Sherlock said, his eyes drinking in John's responses to the sensory bombardment being inflicted on him as his fingers pinched and twisted John's flesh. "Look at you; you're so hard for this. You want to cum, don't you? You've been so good, John, such a good submissive, and you deserve it, don't you?"

"Oh, oh, oh…" John felt his mental walls being taken down, dismantled inside his head with an efficiency that should have scared him, but all he could focus on was Sherlock's hands on his body, the sound of Sherlock's voice in his ears and the throbbing of his cock between his legs, his own voice unable to do anything else but moan continuously at the need/pain/pleasure that was flooding his system.

As if from far away, his subconscious mind listened to the command that Sherlock gave him, the command to use his hands to finish himself off, to cum all over himself and show Sherlock just how much he was enjoying it. So much so, in fact, that he was completely unprepared for the intensity of it when he wrapped his fingers around his cock and stroked himself from base to tip, managing two clumsy strokes and cupping his balls until he cried out at the clenching of his muscles, his nipples aching throughout his climax and making each jolt and shudder that much sweeter, the wetness of his cum dripping between his fingers and making everything slick, drawing out his release in spasms that actually hurt.

Dimly, he felt Sherlock's hands cup his face as he released himself, whimpering and moaning at the final shudders his body gave as Sherlock brought their faces closer together to bask in the aftereffects of John's orgasm. "Did I please you?" John whispered, his voice broken with tears glistening on his cheeks that he hadn't known he'd shed.

"Yes," Sherlock assured him, brushing his lips against John's and stroking his thumbs across John's cheeks to massage his tears into his skin. "You're so beautiful when you cum, did you know that? Exquisite." He took one hand away from John's face and reached down for one of John's own, pulling their hands up between them until John could see the evidence of his release staining both of their fingers where they were joined. "One thing left," Sherlock said, straightening John's fingers and holding his hand at the base. "Don't forget to clean up after yourself."

John knew what Sherlock was asking of him, his eyes glued to his own hand which had so recently been on his erection and watching as his release dripped down between his fingers. He knew that Sherlock wanted him to do it while the detective watched, up close so he could see every emotion that would pass across John's face. And God, he thought, what Sherlock wanted, he wanted and he wondered why he had ever thought it should be otherwise. With a deep moan that he felt all the way to his core, he opened his mouth and took his fingers inside, Sherlock's own groan of appreciation filling his ears as he licked himself clean.

_To be continued_


	5. Chapter 5

******Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.**

**A/N: Sorry for the long update to this one, everyone! For some reason, my writing muse just didn't co-operate until I was at work and then I'd get flashes of inspiration. Nearly all of this chapter has been written during my lunch hour - there's something deliciously naughty about writing this sort of thing during my break but I've given up trying to figure it out ;-)**

**I hope you enjoy this bit and thank you all for your feedback so far! You're all stars in my universe!**

**A/N 2: I've rewritten the chapter concerning Sherlock's dialogue because, after reading it and watching an episode of the series, I decided that it sounded nothing like him! I hope it reflects more of Sherlock's character now and please feel free to let me know what you think! :D **

Part Five

For what seemed like an age, John was blissfully unaware of the outside world beyond himself or Sherlock; even the room in which they were standing was shrouded in a misty haze, with the sound of his heartbeat thrumming in his ears and the feel of Sherlock's hands on his body being the only things he was aware of in those quiet moments.

Sherlock's hands were on his hips now, the man having taken them from John's own to place them delicately on the sensitive skin on the edge of his hipbones, with Sherlock's right hand soothing the mark left from the pinch that had been placed there earlier from when John had momentarily lost his focus. The gentle rotation of that thumb on his left hip captured his attention for a few seconds, his mind cataloguing the feel of the pad on his skin and the calluses there (which were probably the result of an experiment gone awry), before shifting again to the warmth which was emanating from the man in front of him.

Although the primal part of his brain longed to press his body towards Sherlock until they were flush against each other, what was left of his logical thought was quick to remind him of the pain coming from his nipples, which would only intensify if they made contact with anything else besides the air around him. A pain that had been purposefully caused by the detective to his body in the pursuit of a mutual pleasure; of receiving the pain, in John's case, and of giving it in Sherlock's, the desire to submit and overpower both tangible presences in the room while the scene was being played out.

The act itself has been over since the culmination of his orgasm, but John couldn't say that the atmosphere in the room had changed at all from when Sherlock had first told him that this, whatever they were doing, was already happening. He couldn't see Sherlock's face because his eyes were closed, but that didn't detract from the feeling of Sherlock being close to him; it actually enhanced it. The man's scent was strong in his nostrils from where Sherlock had his head close to John's own (a scent resembling the sandalwood of the man's shower gel and the chemicals used in his experiments), with the both of them breathing in the other person which felt far more intimate than anything they'd done so far.

No words had been spoken since Sherlock had given John the order to lick his fingers clean and the salty tang of his cum in his mouth, now fading with each swallow, was a potent reminder of exactly what John had done in order to gain Sherlock's pleasure. It hadn't been the first time that he'd tasted himself; there had been one instance in his early teens when the white substance coming from his cock had intrigued him and his curiosity had gotten the better of him. That first initial taste had been discovered with a large amount of spluttering and spitting because the flavour had really been too briny for his liking and it meant that he hadn't tried it again since.

Not until Sherlock had ordered him to.

John could feel the skin on his cheeks flush with warmth at the memory of Sherlock's smooth, cultured voice commanding him, the blush spreading down his face and neck until it reached his chest. He knew that Sherlock had his eyes open because Sherlock's right hand moved from his hip to trace the outside edges of the blush before placing the palm of that hand in the centre of John's chest, almost directly over his heart, to feel the rhythmic beat of the muscle as it pumped his blood around his body.

"Tell me what you were thinking of just now," Sherlock murmured, a lower octave than normal which only increased the heat in John's face and the speed of his heartbeat, both signs that John knew Sherlock would notice.

John kept his eyes closed, partly because Sherlock hadn't ordered him to open them but also because it gave him the illusion of privacy, a feeling of solitude. As though he were in his room on his own, about to say the words aloud in an area where no one else would be able to hear him (if he didn't say them out loud, did that make them any less real?), all those secret desires that he shied away from and desired in equal parts. But that couldn't be further from the truth, for Sherlock would hear every syllable of every word that he said and a small part of him quaked at the very thought of telling Sherlock what he'd been thinking about even though he had no idea why. Why was he feeling that way after everything that they'd done together, everything that they would do together if they decided that this was something that they wanted to continue?

Why was the thought of it not continuing making his left hand tremble?

"John, I need you to concentrate," Sherlock said, allowing the tone of his voice to edge closer to that of an order. As Sherlock was speaking, John felt Sherlock's hand come into contact with his left, noting the tremble there. "You're concerned about something," the detective murmured, "and only just after our recent activities. Why?"

John exhaled sharply, experiencing a full body shudder before he controlled it. "I'm … I don't want this to end," he whispered, wincing with how needful he sounded. "But I'm afraid of what will happen if we continue. I'm not sure about any of this."

Nothing came from Sherlock for a moment, and John was afraid that he'd said too much until he felt Sherlock's hands move and come to rest on his hips again. "At the beginning of this, I informed you that you have a choice in everything that we do together, even if it's to tell me to stop. That has not changed and if you decide that you'd rather things went back to normal, than that is what will happen." As though to undermine his words, Sherlock's fingers tightened marginally on his hips, unwilling to break away from the physical contact. "Before you decide on anything rash, I would prefer it if you allowed us to continue with this. We haven't made anything official yet but I want to see how this will work, John, with you if you are acceptable."

John nodded, taking a deep, reassuring breath to halt his outbreak of nerves and letting Sherlock's voice into his head, using it just as he had used the pain to balance himself, to ground his mind to the reality of their situation. They hadn't yet decided whether or not they would be continuing with this but all outward indicators seemed good considering Sherlock was still in the moment with him, and John's own reactions to Sherlock's presence were definitely in favour of future activities between them. It was as Sherlock said; he needed to not get too far ahead of himself and, more importantly, he had to trust that Sherlock knew what he was doing. "I was thinking about your voice," John said, going back to Sherlock's previous question and trying to keep his breathing calm because he didn't want to stumble over his words, didn't want Sherlock to get the wrong impression over anything he said. "When you were speaking to me earlier as you were … hurting me."

Sherlock remained silent, waiting for John to finish before he answered. "How does that make you feel, John? I can see it on you, your body is so expressive, but I want to hear it in your own words."

"I… God, I loved it," John admitted, feeling his blush rise with the words but unable to stop now that they were out in the open, didn't want to stop them because it was suddenly easier to let them go. "It's just as I imagined it would be."

"That's a very leading sentence," Sherlock murmured and John felt an increase in heat on the right side of his face when Sherlock moved his head so his mouth was next to John's right ear, being careful not to move his body closer to John's in a conscious decision to avoid putting pressure on his nipples and something that John was grateful for. "What is it about my voice that you like so much?"

John didn't try to suppress the shiver that passed through him at having Sherlock's mouth so close to the lobe of his ear, his warm breath ghosting on the side of John's face in reminiscence of the moment when Sherlock had done the same at the club in front of Will, displaying his ownership for the other man to see. "Its depth," John whispered, panting slightly when Sherlock's hand slid down from his chest and back to his left hip, mirroring the grip of his hand on John's opposite side. "The smoothness of it… it's so intense that it felt like I couldn't focus on anything else when you were speaking to me."

"I've often been told that people find me a very intense person," Sherlock said, his voice a warm chuckle that made John tremble again. "It works to my advantage. Can you tell me what else were you thinking about?"

"The feel of your nails on my skin," John said, opening his eyes and seeing the blue hue of Sherlock's dressing gown, so close to the touch and yet so far away that the distance felt insurmountable. "The pain they caused on my body… Oh God, I wanted it," he gasped, his hands curled into fists at his sides. "I wanted the pain there because I knew how much it would hurt." The words burned in his throat, a short, intense fire that sent his pulse racing and caused the sweat to bead on his face, but after he'd said them he felt better, like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders with the truth of them.

"That's good, John," Sherlock murmured, stroking his fingers up and down the sides of John's body and making his skin break out into goose-bumps. "You're doing very well, but you're not quite there yet. What more is it that I need from you? Can you figure out what it is?"

Oh, Sherlock was being unkind, distracting John with his hands and voice in a dance which was designed to seduce and disarm even the most logical mind, so the fact that John's had been dismantled quite some time ago wasn't working in his favour. His mind felt almost frantic, trying to figure out what it was that Sherlock wanted with his voice catching in his throat, unable to find the words when Sherlock moved his mouth to the lobe of the ear it was so close to and began to nibble on it.

What was it that Sherlock wanted? What had he missed, or had he missed anything at all? Was Sherlock just teasing him, or was there something that he needed from John, something that he hadn't said yet? All through his thoughts, Sherlock continued to nip and lick at his ear, Sherlock's hands moving from his hips and across the flat planes of his stomach, sliding those clever fingers back up his chest, over the muscles of his shoulders and down his arms before slipping his fingers between John's. The touches on his body had been possessive, cursory sweeps that left John with a tingling sensation in their wake, as though those hands were merely marking the areas for further exploration later when there was more time to be had. The touch to his hands though, it was different; a loose clasp, a gentle curling of the digits around John's fingers with the tips stroking the insides of his palms.

Sherlock was cataloguing the feel of his hands, John realised, closing his eyes in a slow exhale before he tentatively returned the exploration, ready to stop at a moment's notice in case Sherlock wanted him to remain still. When nothing came from the detective John allowed himself to be a little bolder, focussing on the feel of the other man's hands in his own and the pleasure of being able to explore a part of Sherlock that had been the cause of his peak just moments before.

Sherlock's fingers seemed longer than they had when they'd been on his body, but no less strong for it, and the calluses on the pads at their tips reminded John of the detective's other obsession in his world (besides his work as a consultant for the Police Department). Above all else, Sherlock's violin playing gave him the focus required for him to understand a case; whether it be through long, flowing melodies that spoke of the intricacies of the case they were working on, or through sharp, short bursts of sound that sounded like a screeching cat, mimicking the chaos in Sherlock's head when the clues he was searching for remained just outside of his reach.

It made him wonder what else those fingers could do to him, more than they had done already, and God, just thinking about those long digits on his nipples again made John's cock throb in a thick, lazy pulse, not aroused enough to warrant full hardness but a reminder nonetheless of the power that Sherlock held at his fingertips.

Quite literally, in this case.

It also made John wonder what the other man was thinking when he was touching John's hands; what did he think about when he traced the hard skin left over from John's use of a weapon? Or the long scar on the inside of his right hand, a wound acquired when he was younger when he fell from a tree and had tried unsuccessfully to stop his fall? Would Sherlock know what had caused it, the scar, or would he have to guess at it, take a closer look at the wound to see what angle the tree branch had caught John before he could deduce it?

The slow touches continued between them, neither of them in a hurry for the contact to end any time soon, and John tried to imagine what this would have been like if he had gone back to the club and another Dom had picked him up in Sherlock's place. Would this have happened at all, this awareness of each other's bodies, of each other's habits and loves and hurts? Or would it have all been a guessing game, with neither John nor the Dom reaching that level of intimacy that John knew he shared with his flatmate? Would he have been able to reach the amount of trust required to allow a stranger to cause him pain intentionally?

The response was a world-resounding 'no' and it was enough to give John the answer he'd known all along to the question Sherlock hadn't asked him.

"You," he whispered, moaning when the attention being given to his ear stopped. "I want all of you," he continued, closing his own fingers around Sherlock's in an affirmation of his words. "Ever since that night in the club when you were pretending to be my Dom. I want that with you, what Eric and Will have."

"Excellent, John," Sherlock said passionately, moving his head back until they were looking at each other in the eye. "Don't worry, you'll get everything you've asked for from me and more, but our relationship won't be like Eric's and Will's." His hands released their grip on John's, bringing them up until they cupped his face again to hold John in place although Sherlock's eyes were more than apt at doing that on their own. John felt himself becoming lost in them, the intensity of Sherlock's look seizing his entire body and making it yearn for the other man as Sherlock said what John had never thought he'd want so much but was suddenly desperate for, had in fact been waiting to hear the words for what felt like his whole existence. "It will be so much better."

oOo

Aftercare, John reflected, wasn't something that he'd paid much attention to when he'd done his initial research into BDSM. From his very limited foray into the topic, he knew that it meant different things to different people and depended on several factors; like the relationship between the Dom and their sub, the rules which had been laid out before the scene started; or even whether or not the sub was on his own if he had no Dom to attend to his needs.

He knew that these instances were only the tip of the ice-burg and John didn't dare call himself an expert at it; he'd only just been introduced to the BDSM world and felt, for all intents and purposes, like a virgin again, trying understand what it was that worked best for his body and not fall off in the deep end. He knew that he hadn't gone into detail on the aftercare side of things because it meant that people were actually being hurt by participating in this, despite the consent on both sides, and that they would need to recover from those injuries before anything more could be done to them. At the time, the thought of anyone causing that much damage to his body had left him feeling cold inside, his cock a limp thing in his trousers that he couldn't rouse for love nor money after the things he'd read and seen on those websites.

With Sherlock's hands on his chest and his eyes inspecting John's nipples to look for any swelling or residual soreness, John was finally beginning to understand what all the fuss was about. It wasn't the fact that pain had been inflicted on those people's bodies, for there was no escaping that, but John was beginning to realise that it was more about the relationship between the sub and the person that they'd chosen to inflict that pain upon them.

_'"He asked me for every single one. And I gave them to him without remorse or regret."' _

Will's words drifted through his mind, his memory providing him with a perfect visual image of Eric's back and the whip marks on his flesh. If it was as Will had said, and Eric's behaviour towards his Dom hadn't suggested otherwise, how much had Eric begged for them before the scene had ended? How much did Will decide Eric could take before he was forced to stop the scene himself, or did he trust his sub so implicitly to know his own body that Eric would have stopped the scene before his limit was breached?

The ache in John's nipples was finally receding, but he couldn't say how much time had passed since they'd started and he couldn't even remember what the time had been when he'd left the club that evening. It was still night-time outside, but it could have passed midnight on the following day and he would have been none the wiser. If he had lost that much awareness of his surroundings, how would he have that much control over what was happening to his body? Would it be like an outer-body experience, except completely the opposite where he would sink so far into himself that even cognisant thought would become a distant memory?

He knew that it kept coming back to one thing, and that was his trust in Sherlock. The man had, in his own way, asked for John's explicit permission to carry on with this relationship and that in itself opened up a whole new scope of questions and scenes to be explored.

Would Sherlock strike him with the riding crop?

Would nipple clamps be used on him?

Would he be tied down somewhere and left to strain and moan for the touch of Sherlock's mouth, his hands, anything to relieve the ache inside of him?

Each thought had its own shiver of reaction and John struggled to remain attentive to what Sherlock was doing, apparently satisfied that no lasting damage had been caused and bringing his eyes back up so they met John's. "It's time for us to move on from this; you can get dressed if you want but I wouldn't suggest putting on your shirt. I want you to be comfortable so we can discuss exactly where it is that we're going with this, but you also need to allow your body to recover from the aftereffects of the scene. Understood?"

"Yes, Sherlock," John said readily. They definitely needed to talk about this and it might help him with some of the more burning questions that he had; the lack of clothing on his upper body was a relief in all honesty because he'd been worried that Sherlock would have made him put the clothes back on precisely because of the tenderness in his nipples. Would he have done it if he'd been told otherwise?

Sherlock stepped out of John's personal space, giving them both some much needed breathing space. "If you prefer your current level of modesty you can remain as you are. Regardless of your decision, you're to wait on your chair until I return and I don't want to hear a single sound out of you until I give you permission to do so. Nod if you understand."

John nodded after a moment to show Sherlock that he'd thought carefully about the words until agreeing to them, and waited until Sherlock left the room before deciding to pull just his boxers on, unwilling to use his shirt or trousers because the room felt too warm for them, or was it just his elevated temperature? Either way, he wasn't putting the shirt back on for the reason Sherlock had stated, but he wasn't sure of the reasons behind it. He knew it would hurt if he did but would that hurt be a good or bad thing?

Realising that he still had an order to follow; he sat down on his chair and tried to figure out how he should sit because that suddenly seemed important. If he sat back and relaxed, would it come across as nonchalant, as though John couldn't care less whether they had this conversation or not? Or, if he leant forward on his knees, would that make him appear too eager or perhaps a little anxious of what was to come?

It wasn't a question he got to answer because he was jostled out of his thoughts by Sherlock's return; the detective had a glass of water in his right hand, which he gave to John with an order to sip from, and he had his riding crop in his left hand which was held down at his side in a loose manner. It didn't matter to John how the riding crop was being held in that moment because he still couldn't take his eyes off of it, even when Sherlock sat in his own chair opposite him and crossed his legs while holding the crop over them. The position was the same one Sherlock had been in when John had come back early from his shift and, judging by the look in Sherlock's eyes, the move was completely intentional.

"You have questions," Sherlock murmured, regarding John from beneath his fringe. "You think so loudly, did you know that? I could almost hear you even though I wasn't in the room." John didn't know how to respond to that and some of his unease must have shown on his face because Sherlock was quick to alleviate his worries. "You shouldn't be concerned about it. Unlike most people, who don't think at all, your mind is something of a revelation; you try to think about the right things although you do worry about them too much." Sherlock took the riding crop in his right hand and placed it down on the floor beside his chair before turning back to John and placing his hands in front of his face, the fingertips pressed together. "I'm wondering if that's partly why you want me to me your Dom; you like it when you have my full attention but only in the matters that suit you; when we're on a case, for example. I can tell you that, as your Dom, I will have access to every facet of your life because you will give it to me, not because I have forced you to but because it's what you want to do. You'll want to share everything with me of your own volition because it is what feels right."

Sherlock paused and it reminded John keenly of the order that he hadn't been given permission to speak because it felt like there was so much that he wanted to say; yes to everything Sherlock had said, as a matter of fact, because a small part of him desperately wanted to succumb to the other man's will and he wanted nothing more than to see the detective's eyes alight with praise for him, over something that he'd said or did that had pleased Sherlock to no end.

Seeing John's predicament, Sherlock glanced over his frame briefly before returning his eyes back to John's. "You have my permission to speak as long as you can retain the calmness that you had during the scene. If not, remain silent until you are able to."

John wanted that as well, to keep the calm state of mind he'd achieved when Sherlock had been stimulating him, but he felt too uncomfortable while he was sitting as he was, unsure of where to put his arms and feeling far too far away from Sherlock given what had just happened between them. He liked to have closeness after being with someone physically and this enforced distance made a knot of _something_ lodge in his stomach.

Sherlock's eyes darkened in the firelight, seeing the evidence of John's distraction on his body. "Stand up and come to my chair," he said softly. "I want to try something with you."

John startled where he sat, watching Sherlock with wide eyes before rising to obey the order; he walked the two steps up to Sherlock, unsure of where to put his hands and wishing that he had gotten dressed in the end because this felt too intense, too much to handle in too short a time.

"Kneel," Sherlock said, eyes holding John's in an unshakable grip. "When you're on your knees, cross your hands in front of you at your wrists with your right hand in front of your left."

John felt his knees go soft underneath him, relaxing almost completely until he remembered that he would need to stop himself from falling to the floor and tensing at the last moment, just preventing his knees from knocking on the carpet but making the whole move jerky and uncoordinated. Flushing with embarrassment, he put his hands into the position requested of him and looking up again to see what Sherlock was doing, taking his lower lip between his teeth in a reflexive action.

"Relax," Sherlock breathed, leaning forward in his chair until he was eye level with John and reaching out a hand to lightly grasp at John's chin. "I know this is unsettling for you, but you haven't done anything that I haven't asked you to and this will get easier as we progress."

John nodded, feeling the muscles in his neck, back and arms relax marginally with Sherlock's words and the position he was in became more comfortable, allowing him to sink into it more fully so he no longer had to think about it. And that felt so much better, the embers from the dying fire keeping him warm on his left side and feeling a lot more stable where he was; which made no sense because he was technically beneath Sherlock in this position and wasn't this meant to be a partnership?

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock asked, withdrawing his hand from John's chin but keeping his profile leaning towards him.

"I'm thinking about the power-play in all this," John said, his response easy and fast. "I don't know how I feel about it."

Sherlock waved a hand briefly to John's words but it wasn't in dismissal, leaning back in his chair until he was almost sprawled in it. "That's something that we'll both come to understand once we've had the practise. Don't be mistaken, John; I'm as much a virgin in this as you are."

John's mouth dropped open. "You're kidding, right? But you're so… so…"

"Good at it?" Sherlock offered with an eyebrow raised speculatively.

"Well… Yes, actually," John said, more than a little flustered. "How do you…?"

"The same way I can mimic a priest in distress or a person who has been locked out of their flat," Sherlock said with humour, "although not in quite so dispassionate a way as you might think. I'm well aware of the trust that this requires, John; believe me when I say that I am not taking this lightly."

John took a moment to absorb that, just because it was so unlike Sherlock to declare any feelings he did have that it made this moment more special. It would seem that he was entering into more than just a physical relationship with Sherlock, so did this mean that the power-play he'd been referring to earlier could somehow work both ways? Like topping from the bottom? Was that even allowed?

"I know you still have questions," Sherlock said, bringing John's focus back to the other man. "Ask them now, if you want to."

"Ok…" Why, oh why, did his tongue decide that now would be a good time to get stuck to the roof of his mouth? John glanced up to Sherlock's face and saw that the detective was waiting as patiently as ever, not appearing to be in any hurry to go anywhere and for once completely focussed on John's needs. It felt so surreal that it left John feeling temporarily speechless. "Are you going to use that?" he asked, eyes flicking down to the riding crop beside Sherlock's chair, and wondered at the relief that flooded his system when Sherlock shook his head.

"It's too soon for that," Sherlock elaborated, "and I wanted to see what your reaction to it would be." He held up his right hand so the palm was facing towards John, displaying it for John to look at. "From what I have ascertained, the more traditional position of 'over someone's knee' has never gone out of fashion and I must admit that I am sorely tempted by it." Sherlock leaned forward again until his face was close to John's, so close that John could see the expansion of Sherlock's pupils in the light. "It may interest you to note that I'm looking forward to seeing if I can turn your arse the same shade of red that your face was a moment ago."

_'Oh God, oh God, oh God…'_ John shut his eyes weakly, his lower lip going in-between his teeth again and blushing hotly at the images in his head; himself spread out over Sherlock's knees, cock rigid between Sherlock's thighs and buttocks smarting from the impact of Sherlock's hand on them. How would it feel? He could almost imagine the sting of it, the heat rising off of his abused flesh, spanked over Sherlock's knee like a disobedient child.

"Is it ok to admit that I like the sound of that?" John whispered into the room, his newly sprung erection testament to his desires.

He could feel Sherlock's eyes on his arousal from where it peeked through the slit at the front of his boxers, taking note of the flush at the head of his cock and the way it jerked against his stomach in almost the exact rhythm as the beating of his heart. "Yes, John," Sherlock said, his own excitement over John's words making his voice breathier, a musky sound that slid down John's nerve-endings in the best of ways. "It is."

_To be continued_


	6. Chapter 6

**********Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.**

**A/N: God, everyone, I am so sorry this took so long to update! The last month has certainly been a tester (a combination of bereavement and redundancy is a hard pill to swallow) but I'm really happy with the way this has turned out so hopefully it meets with everyone's approval! :D **

**I can't say when the next update will be (new job needed, etc), but I won't let this fall by the wayside so don't worry. And thank you all again for your support and lovely comments! They have certainly kept me going the last few weeks so thank you! xxx**

Part Six

John took his hands from the pockets of his jacket and rubbed them together briskly once they got back to the flat, cursing himself for the umpteenth time in forgetting his gloves because of the mad dash it'd been to get to a crime scene earlier that morning. Sherlock had gotten a call from Lestrade saying that another body had been reported on the Tower Bridge by the right-most tower; a young woman had been found hanging from the under-carriage of the road by three bridge-maintenance men during their patrols for external damage.

Except that it hadn't been what you could call a 'traditional' hanging; she'd been tied there by her right foot with her hands cuffed behind her back and her left foot tied to the knee of her right leg. She had no identification on her and she was pronounced dead at the scene, but the circumstances of her death had definitely been unusual enough for Lestrade to call on Sherlock's expertise. Which had led to both of them standing on the bridge at half eight on a chilly December morning trying to work out what had happened to her.

Forensics had initially determined the cause of death as a suicide, something that unfortunately wouldn't have gotten the detective out of his flat if it had been in any way 'normal', or as normal as a suicide could be. Sherlock himself had been unoptimistic when he'd heard the cause of death, but that changed when Lestrade had described exactly how the woman had been found and John also knew Sherlock couldn't resist it when he'd heard that Anderson was in charge of forensics. John had been unable to keep the grin off of his face when Sherlock had been his usual self and denounced the opinion entirely (because they couldn't possibly have found all the facts with Anderson leading the investigation), before crouching down by the body of the woman and examining the bindings of the rope that had been left around her ankle and knee.

Sherlock quickly determined that she'd been hanging there for a while, most of the night actually, and John had informed him that, if that were the case, it would have been long enough for the blood to pool in her brain, ultimately causing blood clots that would result in a stroke. Anderson attempted to 'persuade' Sherlock several times that they couldn't know that until an autopsy had been performed, but John knew it was a pointless venture to try and influence Sherlock's decision over anything unless you had hard evidence to the contrary. That, and the lack of an autopsy didn't mean he hadn't agreed with Sherlock's initial assessment; if she'd been hanging there for as long as Sherlock was theorising, then the blood accumulation in her skull would have been inevitable, but he hadn't agreed with Sherlock that more people needed to be hung upside down to assess the reactions of the body to the change of orientation. He even went as far as ordering Sherlock_ not_ to do it to himself for the sake of science, because, as much as he was seeing the detective in a whole new way (and regardless of their private life), there were times when one just had to draw the line.

And yet, although it left him a little shame-faced to admit it, because there had been a _dead_ _woman_ there and it just wasn't decent for normal conversation let alone where they'd actually been, all John could think about was the rest of his conversation with Sherlock from the night before.

_The previous night…_

"So what happens now?" John asked around a dry throat, his erection still twitching through the gap in his boxers and somehow insatiable in its demand for more attention.

Sherlock regarded him for a moment; his eyes lowered to a half mast so only a sliver of colour remained. To all outward appearances it looked as though Sherlock was starting to fall asleep, but there was a subtle tension in the air and John could still feel Sherlock's eyes on him despite the man's body language. The silence stretched on between them, and it almost reached the point where John couldn't decide whether Sherlock was actually going to say anything until Sherlock's eyes opened again, the detective rubbing the flats of his hands together before bringing his chin to rest on top of them with the fingers of his right hand curled around his left fist. As before, the silence continued and John fought the urge to shift where he was sat; Sherlock hadn't told him he could move, not yet, and he didn't want to risk moving in case the scene wasn't over. He'd read about the punishments that could be inflicted on a submissive for disobeying a command and he knew that he was in no way ready for_ any_ of them, despite the fact that they hadn't established how far they were going to take this new turn in their relationship. Would it go as far as Sherlock choosing what clothes John would wear for the day or would it remain a small kink that they only delved in occasionally? John was only slightly startled by the thought that he knew he couldn't wait to find out.

"We're going to continue this tomorrow," Sherlock said finally, lowering his hands and scooting forward on the chair until John was within easy reach of his hands. "Before we start anything new I want you to think of two safe words," he continued, running the index finger of his right hand up John's collar bone, a feather-light touch that tickled as much as it aroused, leaving John inhaling sharply on the floor. He was desperate for more of this, the touch of Sherlock's hands on his body, but Sherlock seemed content to torment him with small brushes across his skin, his eyes focussed on John's face and the expressions that he was unable to hide. No doubt cataloguing each shiver of reaction for future retrieval.

"The first one should signal that you need a break," Sherlock said, eyes following the line his fingers made on John's flesh. "A small breather from the activity we're doing should you require it; and the second should signal your need for the scene to stop in its entirety. They don't have to mean anything specific, but I want them to be as unusual as possible. Not the sort of thing that would crop up in a normal conversation."

John giggled, his face breaking out into a grin and then shuddering when Sherlock pinched the skin above his right nipple. "Since when…" A deep breath to relax tense muscles, then a sharp inhale with the next pinch which was followed by a gentle soothing action on the area._ 'Oh God, please do that again!'_ _"_...are any of our conversations normal?"

Sherlock smiled; a small one that titled one side of his lips and made the predatory look in his eyes much more powerful. "As I said, they should be words that won't come up in a_ normal_ conversation. You have the ability to integrate yourself into social events with minimal effort despite your cohabitation with me. This should be an easy task for you."

John nodded and watched Sherlock's face intently as Sherlock took his hands from his body, leaning down towards him and brushing his lips lightly with his own before sliding his tongue into John's mouth. John didn't restrain his moan at the contact, sucking on Sherlock's tongue as it twined with his own in a warm, moist dance that had John's skin tingling with the sensation of it.

He wanted to lift his hands up and run his fingers through Sherlock's curls, dig them into the other man's hair and pull Sherlock towards him until they were pressed against each other in all the right places, but he stubbornly kept his hands where they were crossed in front of him._ 'Not allowed to move,'_ he thought to himself, gasping into Sherlock's lips when the kiss became more heated._ 'Don't have permission…'_ God, the thought made his body break out in goose-bumps, the very idea that he needed Sherlock's permission before he could move, and it made him feel hot all over with a flush that had nothing to do with the dying fire at his side.

Sherlock broke the kiss reluctantly (John liked to think that it was with a certain amount of reluctance on Sherlock's part) and held John's eyes with his own for a moment, seemingly unwilling to break their connection so soon. "I may not say this as often as you would like," he murmured, a quiet admission, "but you've done well so far, John. I'm very pleased with you."

"Thank you, Sherlock," John whispered, the proper response tumbling from his lips but unable to make the words louder because of the tightness in his chest. He tried not to let it bother him because he knew that Sherlock would understand his fervour, would see it on his face and in the look in his eyes; that Sherlock would see all the emotion that he had for the other man by his physical reactions alone.

"I have one more thing that I want from you," Sherlock said, his right hand lightly tracing the underside of John's jaw. "You've read about this already, so it shouldn't come as too great a shock to you, but you're not allowed to bring yourself to orgasm without my permission."

John's focus drastically shifted from where Sherlock's fingers were on his face to the words that had just been spoken. "You're jok-" and hastily shut his mouth before he could finish the rest of that sentence. It was very clear that Sherlock wasn't joking and his retort to the order wouldn't have gone down well. "Even when we're not in a scene?" he asked, a small amount of his disbelief covering his tone because he honestly hadn't thought it would go this far this soon, which was stupid really because he couldn't remember a time when Sherlock had done something 'by the book.' It was just like the detective to dive headlong into a new experiment and their first forays into the dynamics of a Dom/sub relationship would be no different.

"Yes, John," Sherlock replied. "I need to know how your body reacts in every possible way to what we're doing; from the lightest touch of my fingernail to the way your body adjusts to the strike of a flogger." Sherlock smirked. "Not that denying you of your body's pleasure doesn't give me a perverse sense of satisfaction; I like the idea of you desperate for me and, although you may not agree with me in the days to come, I'm certain that you'll learn to enjoy it as much as I will."

John remained silent, thinking of the hours of endless waiting ahead; the almost painful urge in his groin that demanded satisfaction because this whole evening on its own was enough to fuel John's wanking fantasies for_ months._ That, and also knowing that not a night went by where he didn't get off at least once (with or without another body there), knowing that he wasn't even allowed that anymore, was just torture, pure and simple. Sherlock had said that it would only be with his permission though, so he would be there watching John take his pleasure, his eyes taking in the way John's hands moved on his length, starting with light, teasing touches and moving onto broader, firmer strokes with just the right amount of slickness leaking from his slit-_ 'Fuck, stop it, John, just fucking stop thinking about it!'_

"This is going to be hard," John murmured and grinned when he realised what he'd just said before yawning widely, his tiredness creeping up on him and making him yearn to stretch his body out to relieve his cramping muscles.

"No pun intended," Sherlock said mildly, glancing down at his watch when John finished his yawn. "It's gone midnight, not that late for a Friday night, but I wouldn't be a responsible Dom if I didn't allow you to recover from what has been a strenuous evening. Incidentally, you will be sleeping in my bed from now on; I sleep on the side closest to the door so don't be surprised if I move you during the night if you've taken up the whole of the mattress. You can stand now and don't forget your clothes on the sofa."

"Are you coming with me?" John asked, getting his legs up underneath him with a little difficulty because they'd gone to sleep and watching as Sherlock stood up from his chair.

"Of course," Sherlock said, taking hold of one of John's hands in his own after John picked up his clothing. "Just because I usually don't participate in sentiment doesn't mean that I can't see the potential benefits of it once in a while. Sharing a bed with you should prove to be extremely advantageous." Sherlock smirked again. "In more ways than one, I'm sure."

_Present day…_

Before John could give any more thought on the events of the previous night, Sherlock came into the flat after him with a great swirl of his coat as it was removed and placed on the hook on the back of the door. The scarf was quick to follow, and the gloves, until Sherlock was back in his normal attire and almost physically vibrating with an energy that had come from successfully solving the case of the hanged woman.

John smiled as he continued blowing warmth into the cup of his hands because, although it certainly hadn't been the fastest case Sherlock had ever solved, it had been one of the more rewarding ones; one with a puzzle to it, rather than just a dull murder of passion, and it would certainly make a good read on John's blog later. He couldn't understand how Sherlock thought any murder was ever dull, but a murder of passion by suicide… now that was a different story.

The woman had intentionally hung herself upside down in mimicry of a tarot card known as 'The Hanged Man'. Sherlock didn't immediately delve into the specifics of what the card meant, but his excitement over finding not just one, but two tarot cards, had been infectious. 'The Hanged Man' had been paired with the 'Death' card and, despite the Yard's pessimistic reaction to the find, Sherlock himself had been intrigued.

"Finding these two cards together doesn't necessarily mean that you'll die in a certain way," he'd explained to John. "'The Hanged Man' generally represents a release of emotion and control in the Tarot world; the suggestion that you allow fate to guide your life instead of struggling against it and having an acceptance of where you are and what has happened to you."

Sherlock had held up the 'Death' card, its graphic depiction of Death with his sceptre making John nervous. "When paired with this card, most Tarot readers will tell you that they represent the end of something old and the start of something new. This woman has either taken it literally, which I doubt, or she has taken it as a threat. Given the level of detail she's put into making her appearance the same of 'The Hanged Man', it's obvious that she knew what the card meant because she didn't struggle once she was in her bonds. She accepted her death until the very last moment."

Once this had been explained to Lestrade, along with instructions to locate the owner of the tarot deck from which those cards came from (Sherlock had told them to start with the dead woman's sister and ask for the location of a 'Madame Trinity'), Sherlock had left the scene with John hot on his heels, shouting over his shoulder for Lestrade to text him once the suspect had been apprehended.

"I didn't know you dabbled in Tarot," John said to Sherlock, watching as the other man paced the living room from the windows to his chair and back to the windows with his hands pressed together under his chin.

Sherlock stopped his pacing and turned his head to look at John. "Experiment. I wanted to calculate the ratios of actually receiving a positive reading to a negative one, how the deck could be rigged to show certain cards instead of at random. Child's play." He walked up to John then and took his hands between his own, using the warmth of his own body to help restore the circulation in John's fingers. "You really should have brought your gloves," Sherlock chided him, stepping closer still until their bodies were shy of just pressing against each other.

John looked up at Sherlock's face and then back down to where his hands were clasped between the detective's. "Well, we didn't want to be late, did we?"

"Hmmmm…" Sherlock began to rub his hands against John's in an effort to restore the warmth more quickly, using the friction created to aid the process. "Despite this little mishap, you did well with the crime scene today."

John smiled. "Yeah, I did, didn't I?" Like it wasn't anything that he was growing accustomed to now. Sherlock's intervention at crime scenes over the past year meant that John had had the opportunity to practise the deducing skills that the other man was inadvertently teaching him, and the feeling of getting something right, making Sherlock feel proud of him, wasn't something that he thought he'd ever want less of. "I do have an excellent teacher."

Sherlock's eyes flicked up to his from where they'd been on John's hands, the look one of quiet assessment. "Are you suggesting that you are indebted to me, John?"

The question was simple but the implications behind it, the unspoken entendre, were the things that made John feel weak at the knees, making him struggle not to squirm under the intense scrutiny of the man who saw everything. "Maybe…"

Sherlock's hands stilled in their motion, the fingers curling around John's in a loose grip, with Sherlock's eyes holding John's for a moment longer before he moved his face closer to John's head and let his breath ghost over the shell of John's right ear. Sherlock didn't say anything like John had expected him to, just allowing them both to feel the moistness of his breath on the side of John's face until all he knew was the gentle inhale and exhale of Sherlock's body.

Sudden warmth on the left side of his groin made John gasp at the contact as a hand, Sherlock's right, slid closer to the erection that he didn't know he had. Last night, the first night of his enforced denial, he'd been in agony; he'd gone to bed at Sherlock's command with sore nipples and a hard cock, both of them vying for his attention with equal amounts of pain and pleasure, the dual sensations playing together until he couldn't figure out where one began and the other ended. It had taken a stern look from Sherlock to make him stop fidgeting underneath the covers, his hands twisted in the sheets above him and whimpering when the French silk (of course it had been French silk, Sherlock would only ever have the best) brushed across his chest and groin in maddening strokes.

The only thing he had going for himself was the fact that he hadn't begged, not really. His body might have had other ideas, longing to press himself to Sherlock's lean form and rub one off on him until they both fell asleep from exhaustion, but his mind had been stronger, especially when Sherlock had looked at him with praise over his handling of the situation. In those cases he didn't even need to think about it. He could have the minute or so of physical bliss or he could have the look Sherlock had given him before he'd drifted to sleep, one of supreme satisfaction and approval. There wasn't any contest.

Sherlock's hand continued its exploration, rubbing along the width of his leg between his hip and groin, his thumb curling over John's hipbone before sliding back and just letting a fragment of sensation reach his erection which was already at full mast and straining against the zip of his jeans. John kept trying to remember to breathe, unintentionally holding it in when Sherlock's hand drifted close to the centre of his arousal and releasing it when Sherlock again moved his hand away, although with a shorter period of time between each pass. It helped, somewhat, that each lingering caress was becoming stronger, firmer, something he might be able to thrust up into if Sherlock gave him half the chance, and in his ear he could hear Sherlock's breath quicken in response to the noises he was making, the quiet gasps and whispered pleas.

John's next inhale escaped him in a shuddering sigh when Sherlock's hand finally stopped at his groin, pressing the heel of his hand against the length of John's cock and teasingly stroking up and down, enough friction to enable John to feel it through two layers of clothing but not enough to bring him to orgasm. "You're so hard, John," Sherlock whispered, his hand easily riding the reactive thrust of John's hips to his words. "You want this, don't you? You want my hands on you, making a tight sheath that you can fuck into."

John moaned aloud at the words, Sherlock's use of the word 'fuck' acting like the fist he'd been just been talking about and squeezing his cock beneath his trousers. God, Sherlock had the prettiest voice, deep and sensual, so hearing any cuss word come out of his mouth was enough to push John to breaking point.

"But you don't really want it to end this way," Sherlock said, his voice a low drawl. "Perhaps another time, but not right now." He drew back from John's ear and pressed his face close to John's throat so that, when he spoke, his mouth was just millimetres away from John's pulse point. He inhaled deeply and John felt the flush on his face rise to the tips of his ears when he realised that Sherlock was scenting him, his cologne from the night before, the smells of London which still clung to his skin and the faint underscoring of sweat that was increasing as the stimulation to his body continued. "When I step away, I want you to take your clothes off," Sherlock said, gliding his other hand around John's waist. "And when you're naked," his hand stopped on John's right buttock and squeezed the muscle beneath it, "I want you over my knee."

"Oh _yes_," John panted, eyes sliding shut at the vivid image of himself spread over Sherlock's legs. "I want that… Please, let me do that for you."

Sherlock pressed a single, closed-mouth kiss against John's neck before stepping away and taking his hands with him, and John had a second to regret the loss of those hands until he was started shedding his clothes, trying to take his time and be neat about it because he had a hard enough time cleaning the flat with Sherlock's mess, let alone his own. Sherlock didn't give any indication that he wanted John to go any faster, although his face seemed to grow darker, more intense as each article was removed. Throughout the process Sherlock didn't take his eyes off of John's body, following the movement of John's fingers when they finished undressing his torso and started working on his trousers. The button and zipper were easy to deal with, his fingers unintentionally brushing over the head of his cock through his boxers and shuddering at the wetness which was leaking from him through the fabric. The faint hitch John heard in Sherlock's breathing showed him that the other man had seen it too.

Unlike the first time where he'd been undressed by Sherlock, removing his clothes himself took no time at all, and soon he was standing there in the living room with not a stitch on, waiting for his next direction. The flat was still a bit chilly from where they hadn't stoked the fire before they left, and John could see his skin reacting to it when his hairs stood on end, an unwanted tremor racking his frame when the goose-bumps turned to shivers.

Sherlock stepped into his space and took his right hand, leading him further into the living room and up to Sherlock's chair. "Stay still," Sherlock murmured, and John did as asked while he watched Sherlock turn and start a kindling for the fire. Once the fire caught on the logs and coals, a much needed heat began to spread through the room and John felt his muscles relax from where he was standing as the warmth took away the chill from his body and replaced it. Sherlock turned back to him once he was satisfied with the fire and a guard had been pulled across to stop the embers spitting out onto the carpet, stepping just slightly away from the hearth so that, even in the light shining through from the windows, he could still see the shimmer of the flames leaping onto John's body.

John hoped Sherlock liked what he saw and, by the deepening hue of the other man's eyes, he was guessing that his body was being visually savoured by a man who absorbed every detail with all of his cognitive ability. "Have you decided on your safe words?" Sherlock asked, sliding his thumbs into the pockets of his trousers and leaning back against the mantle, a relaxed posture that John wanted to go up to and slide against. He'd never seen Sherlock look this relaxed before but that didn't mean that he wasn't in control; he'd learnt early on that Sherlock rarely did things for no reason when it came to his own body, including the sparse eating during cases, so the way he was now had been done to garner a certain reaction in John.

If it was to make John want him even more, then Sherlock had passed with full marks. "Um, yes… I have," he answered, suddenly shy in his choices; what if Sherlock didn't approve of them? "For a break I chose 'Warten'. For the scene to stop, the word is 'Arrêter'."

There was a moment where Sherlock seemed to absorb the words and their English translations. Then he smiled. "Very good, John. Warten and Arrêter it is." He pushed himself off the mantle and went to his chair, sitting down so that his buttocks were just perched on the edge of the seat with his knees bent at an almost perfect right angle. "Lie across me, face down, with your feet towards the fire."

Oh, God, this was it. This was actually happening. John came around to the side requested of him and, with Sherlock's assistance, managed to get himself draped over the other man's knees, Sherlock spreading his thighs to give John more support in the position that he wanted. John suspected that Sherlock had also opened his legs to prevent John's erection from receiving any sort of stimulation; getting into the position had been a little tricky and his cock had brushed against Sherlock's trouser legs more than once, sending jolts through him at each contact. Now there was nothing there but the air that surrounded him and that left him positively_ hurting_ with want.

Neither of them spoke for a moment and it gave John the time he needed to relax in the position, dropping his shoulders down to reduce the ache in them and allowing his hands to brush the floor. The support being given by Sherlock's legs meant that he wasn't arching his spine, so he wouldn't have to worry about back pain either, at least for a time. He couldn't ignore the fact that he felt extremely vulnerable in this position though, and Sherlock must have sensed it because his hands were gently soothing their way from John's thighs to the small of his back, broad strokes that relaxed any remaining tension in the muscles.

No touches had been made to his arse yet, just along his back and thighs, but John was prepared for it when one of Sherlock's hands (the right, he was guessing by the position of the thumb) gently cupped one cheek and squeezed it. Women had often grabbed his arse in an attempt to try and pull him deeper into them during sex, but no man had ever touched him there with almost the same intent, a possessive touch that set his nerve endings tingling and made his body shake where it lay. "Steady," Sherlock murmured, laying his right hand on the small of John's back.

John almost whimpered at the heat coming from Sherlock's hand but fought it back at the last minute. "Sorry," he panted, hanging his head.

"Ssshhh," Sherlock quietened him, sliding that hand back down to John's buttocks again and stroking over one, then the other, alternating between the two. "No need to apologise. Your reactions are untried, pure. No other man has dared to touch you here," another squeeze, firmer than the others to drive home the point, "and yet here you are."

_'Like a child,'_ John thought, finishing off Sherlock's sentence in his head.

...No.

Not like a child.

Like a man who had chosen to be here, a man who wanted to be here. The distinction felt very important and Sherlock hummed his approval when the thought allowed John to sink deeper into the scene they were in, any remaining physical tension ebbing away until all that was left was John's body and the places he was pressed against Sherlock in his nudity. There was something delicious about being petted over another person's knee when you were naked while they were fully clothed; when that person was Sherlock, the feeling only intensified.

"I want you to choose a number that will decide how many slaps you receive," Sherlock said, his voice soft but commanding. "You can decide between one and ten. After each strike, I want to hear you say the corresponding number. Understand?"

"Yes, Sherlock," John whispered, loud enough for Sherlock to hear it. God, how did he choose? One strike wouldn't be enough for him to decide whether he liked it or not, but ten didn't sound like enough either. Did he go for the higher number and hope Sherlock would take it easy on him, or would each one be as powerful as the first, forcing heat into his flesh so that, by the time he reached ten, he'd be begging Sherlock to stop? "Ten," he decided, nodding to himself. "Ten please, Sherlock."

"Ten," Sherlock repeated, solidifying the number in John's head. "Don't lost count." With barely a pause, John felt Sherlock lift his right hand before bringing it down again on the flesh of his left buttock.

John groaned deeply in his chest with the first slap, the sound of Sherlock's hand hitting his body loud in his ears. The first one hadn't been soft at all; no ice breaker into what was an untried area between the two of them. No, Sherlock's hand had landed hard, forcing the pain into the left cheek of his arse and leaving it stinging at the contact, making John unsure whether he wanted another one just like that or whether it was time to stop. "One," he murmured, his voice hoarse in his throat.

The word had barely left his mouth before the second slap hit on his right cheek and John's fingers curled into fists under him as the pain flooded up to his brain and made his eyes roll back into his head. Or it could have been the endorphins. Yes, probably the endorphins… "Two."

A third one, this time on the same spot as before, and having the same area smacked again really woke John up; he cried out and dipped his back, unintentionally pushing his arse up towards Sherlock as the fire tore through him. "Oh my God," he moaned, his fingers desperately clenching under him as his cock throbbed with need. "Th- three."

"God, John, you should see yourself," Sherlock said breathily, rubbing the flat of his index finger over the area he'd just hit. "You respond so beautifully because you were made for this, weren't you. This is where you were meant to be all along." John felt Sherlock shift position above him so that the detective's mouth was above his neck. "Aren't I lucky I found you first."

"Oh God, Sherlock, again," John groaned, dipping his back again to try and press himself against Sherlock's hand. "Hit me again."

The fourth strike on the opposite cheek held everything that John wanted it to; the feel of Sherlock's hand on him, hurting him, forcing out all thought and leaving only base instinct behind. His breath was panting from him in sharp bursts from his chest, his mouth dry and forgotten in the onslaught of _too much_ and _not enough. _What was left of his conscious thought knew that he'd pushed his head back until his throat was taut, exposing his neck in his desire to submit to a stronger hand. Oh fuck, they'd only just started and already John was in _pieces._

The following smacks happened in quick succession to different areas, making John cry out with each one and his erection burn almost as much as his arse was. "How many is that, John?" Sherlock asked, smoothing his hand over John's thighs and dipping between them in teasing, distracting touches.

"Seven… Fuck, seven…" John's legs automatically opened of their own accord, as far as his current position would allow, trying to give Sherlock more room to explore; Sherlock infuriatingly knew what he was trying to achieve and kept his touches minimal, wanting to make him work for it.

"Three more to go," Sherlock said with his voice like dark honey; John whimpered, his body breaking out in a flush at Sherlock's tone. Jesus, if this was what Sherlock sounded like during sex…

The next two hits forced groans from the depths of John's chest, his mind breaking down with the sensory pleasure of having this finally happen to him. Sherlock's hand had to be stinging by now but he hadn't let up the pace or the pressure, and John couldn't help but writhe a bit where he lay because the mental image of Sherlock's handprints on his arse made his groin burn in the most pleasant of ways. Was it possible he could actually come from this? Without even being touched?

The tenth and final strike, harder than the rest by far (Sherlock must have really put some effort into it or was it because his skin felt like it was on fire anyway?), and John very nearly screamed if he'd had enough air in his lungs to expel it. Unbidden, he felt his cock jerk between his legs, once, twice, and then he cried out again in surprise, realising that he was coming, Jesus, he was _coming_ and he didn't think he'd ever _stop, _it was too strong.

He'd only just finished his orgasm, his cock still hard and jutting underneath him when he felt Sherlock move. The detective's hands came around John's body and supported him almost effortlessly, moving him from Sherlock's lap until he was on the floor with his arms out in front of him and his stomach settling on the wet patch he'd left behind. "Don't move," Sherlock ordered him, voice rough and demanding, and John shivered when he heard the noise of Sherlock's fingers undoing the clasp on his trousers. Before long the noise of Sherlock's moan drifted down to him, followed by the slick sound of what must have been Sherlock stroking himself and the thought was almost enough to set John off again; the image of Sherlock bloody Holmes wanking off over his body.

When Sherlock finally reached his peak, it was barely preceded by a gasp and a moan before John felt hot wetness land on the places of his back, each jet of semen aimed with precision even as Sherlock was in the throes of what had to be an intense orgasm. John sobbed his relief when he felt the evidence of Sherlock's pleasure on him, proving beyond a doubt that the other man was as affected by this as he was, perhaps more; God, he hoped it was more. The last of Sherlock's release leaked onto him, leaving him with sticky warmth on his skin that he didn't want to lose because it was _Sherlock_ on him, marking him, staking his claim. When had the idea suddenly become so important?

Over the roaring in his ears he heard Sherlock step over his body and crouch down at his front, gently easing John up until he was on his elbows and tilting his head up enough so he could look at Sherlock's face. And what a face it was, still flushed from excitement and arousal, and all John wanted to do was kiss him, kiss that beautiful mouth until they were both breathless from it.

After he'd gotten his wish, with the taste of Sherlock still fresh in his mouth, John realised that he hadn't been given permission to come; but Sherlock calmly took his face in his hands and placed a finger over John's lips when he went to speak. "No words, John," Sherlock murmured, stroking the fingertip over his mouth. "Just enjoy the aftermath."

Sighing deeply, John closed his eyes and pushed his face into Sherlock's hands, breathing a moan of relief when Sherlock pressed gentle kisses over his face and stayed close as they both came down from the high. "Thank you," he whispered against Sherlock's lips, pressing their mouths together briefly. "Thank you for giving me this."

Sherlock chuckled, lowering a hand and intertwining the fingers of it with John's. "The pleasure is all mine." The detective shifted again, moving to sit cross-legged on the floor. "You do know what you've opened yourself up for though, don't you."

John tensed where he lay, suddenly uneasy. "What?"

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him in amusement. "You've just proved without a doubt that you can come without your cock being touched. It would be safe for you to assume that I'm very much looking forward to seeing what else I can do to you to garner the same reaction." A hand drifted down John's chest, lightly circling one of John's nipples and causing John's eyes to flutter shut at the stimulation. "Yes," Sherlock purred, the light strokes turning into a flick over the hardened nub and making John shudder. "Very much indeed."

_To be continued_


	7. Chapter 7

**************Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.**

**A/N: Did you really think you'd get rid of me that easily? ;-)**

**In all honesty, it's good to be back with the next chapter that I've been working on for the past month and a bit so I hope it meets with everyone's approval. Thank you all for your comments and for being so patient with me! Real life is getting better now but I still haven't found a new job yet so I hope you can hang on for a bit longer with Perihelion. It will be completed, I promise!**

Part Seven

The first thing John became aware of was the intense heat inside his body. He knew that he was still half asleep so the feeling itself was a drowsy one, cushioned in layers of silk and an absurdly soft mattress that gave him the impression he'd been lying on a cloud instead of a bed, but he knew that those feelings weren't the ones that had pulled him from his dreams. Focusing his mind, he established that the heat wasn't coming from his body regulating his own temperature, nor was it from the mattress he was lying on or the quilts that were tucked in around his hips. It was coming from an outside source, the bed's other occupant in fact, and even without opening his eyes he knew it was Sherlock. The other man was pressed along his back from neck to ankle, as naked as John was, and a firm presence to anchor him in what was an undiluted atmosphere of indulgence.

As comfortable as his body was in its current state, that very feeling was enough to give John pause in his thoughts and make him wonder exactly how it was that he came to be there. It would be wrong to say that he regretted anything that had happened between Sherlock and himself (nothing could be further from the truth of it), but at the same time John could safely say that he'd never seen this coming. He was in bed with a self-professed high functioning sociopath, who had clearly displayed no qualms for personal boundaries, and he couldn't have been happier about it.

He thought about his life from before, when he'd been wounded and flown back to England on an army pension with a therapist who didn't really didn't have a clue what she was talking about, and his life now. For some reason, Sherlock had infiltrated every aspect of his life from the moment they met, deducing his recent past by the way that John had stood in Bart's and almost everything in-between. No stone left unturned, but he'd been intrigued rather than annoyed by the flamboyancy of his new flatmate and had been desperately curious by the end to know more about the man who had taken an interest in him. Dull, boring John Watson who had nothing happening to him until the day he met Sherlock Holmes.

Months had passed since their first meeting, with John's limp fixed on the first day, over a dozen cases solved and blogged with the detective, and a distressing number of girlfriends who had been scared off or shunned in Sherlock's favour when the demand for John's presence superseded his desire for a relationship that would last. And now this; the two of them lying naked together in Sherlock's bed as though it wasn't anything they hadn't done before. As if John hadn't vehemently defended his sexuality when he found out he would be Sherlock's submissive for the evening and hadn't had a small crisis when Sherlock found out about John's interest in him, admittedly something that was still a surprise to him regardless of where he was now.

As if the feel of Sherlock's morning erection pressing into his back wasn't alarming in any way, just physical evidence of the other man's excitement for John's body and perhaps a future indicator of Sherlock's intent. To have John bound on his front, legs spread, loose and_ open_ for the push and thrust of Sherlock's fingers…

John shuddered where he laid, his fingers curling in the sheets as he thought of it happening and the vulnerability that it inspired.

When he seriously considered it, the act of being with another man and the implications of what that meant between them, as he was doing so now, John didn't think he was gay, not really. The deduction Sherlock had made at the start of their relationship had been startlingly accurate because John wasn't attracted to men like he was to women, but as with everything else in his crazy world, Sherlock was a different breed to anyone else he'd ever met. He couldn't think of a single person who wouldn't be attracted to Sherlock in some way or other, drawn into his orbit and helplessly baited by the danger and loosening of moral and ethical boundaries that the man represented. Sherlock got away with murder, almost literally in some cases (John couldn't stop his smile of remembrance when he'd heard Lestrade ask Sherlock how many times the CIA agent had fallen out the window because he'd been stupid enough to hurt Mrs Hudson), but John supposed it did help that he got the job done in the end.

The fact that Sherlock had charisma and looks on his side (because he really was bloody gorgeous, for a bloke) were bonuses that John was only too happy to accept.

The sensation of fingertips tracing along his skin slowly filtered through the sleep-induced haze that John was still under (a direct result of a restful night), with the touch being light enough to be delicate but not ticklish, halting his mental assessment of himself in its tracks. He kept his breathing low and even, allowing his awareness to follow the fingers as they moved from his jaw-line on his right side and gently down to his arm which was exposed to the air. They paused at his hand, stroking across his knuckles before sliding from it entirely and settling across his silk-covered hip.

With almost no warning, hot, moist air breathed over the nape of his neck ahead of the lips that followed, pressing against his skin reverently before pursing on his flesh and lightly sucking, the slick slide of a tongue dragging over nerve-endings from the top of his shoulder to the sensitive patch of skin just under his ear lobe. He couldn't stop his breath from hitching when that spot was lavished with attention, a different warmth suffusing his body and causing the length at his groin to stir under the sheets in slow pulses.

"Mmmm," Sherlock murmured; his voice gravelly from sleep. "Good morning…"

John arched his body back against Sherlock's, tilting his head to the side to encourage Sherlock's affections and to provide him with further areas to explore, sighing when his hips bumped back into Sherlock's and he again encountered the hot, thick press of Sherlock's erection digging into the small of his back. "Good morning," he replied, his lips tilting up at the corners when he felt Sherlock smile against his neck and thrust his hips forward against John's skin in an attempt to find more stimulation for his own body. "Much better than an alarm clock," John elaborated, gasping when Sherlock's tongue slid up to the area behind his ear and licked at it.

"I know," Sherlock said, pausing to speak the words directly into John's ear. "Have you seen the time this morning?"

It took some effort on his part, but eventually John was able to centre his attention on the hands of the clock which were faintly glowing their fluorescence in the darkness of the room, his eyes widening when he realised what the time was. "Your alarm was meant to go off five minutes ago…"

Sherlock chuckled. "Once I knew you were asleep I turned it off. You have an unconscious habit of tensing when an alarm wakes you, so much that you carry it with you when you get ready for work." The hand on John's hip shifted again, gliding down over his uncovered stomach and teasing at the edge where the silk covered his groin. "You must admit, this is a much better way of waking up in the morning."

John couldn't help but agree with Sherlock's assessment, reaching his right hand up and tangling his fingers into Sherlock's curls in an attempt to bring Sherlock's mouth back against his neck. "Can't have a clock undoing all the hard work you did yesterday," he said, sighing when Sherlock began laying kisses on his shoulder. "I've not felt this relaxed in ages." And when he said it, John knew he meant every word.

Yesterday after his spanking, Sherlock had taken care of the soreness left by laying John face-down on their bed (was it theirs because they were sharing one now?) and applying Arnica cream to the cheeks of his arse. John, being a doctor, knew that the actual effectiveness of homeopathic medicine was still open to debate, and probably would be for years to come unless accurate testing was completed, but when Sherlock had spread the cream on with the same sensitivity from when Sherlock had been checking his nipples, John had to give it some credit. The cream had felt wonderful on his skin, leeching the heat from his flesh and soothing tense muscle that had yet to realise that the infliction of pain was over.

Not that the pain had been a punishment… No, not by a long shot.

"Speaking of which," Sherlock murmured, almost as though he'd read John's mind, taking his hand from John's stomach and reaching between them until he could softly cup John's right buttock. "How are you feeling now?"

John winced at first when he felt Sherlock's hand on his skin, expecting more pain at the contact then what he actually received. Maybe Arnica cream really did work after all… "Not too bad this morning," he replied truthfully, turning his head so he could look Sherlock in the eye without dislodging his hand. "Don't know how I'm going to survive the shift today though. Sitting down is going to be interesting."

Sherlock smirked. "Something for you to remember yesterday by." The hand he had on John's buttock squeezed briefly before he gently raked the fingernail of his index finger across the skin, and that did make John wince. "Hmmm, yes, you're so sensitive now. Just the slightest touch," another slide of that nail, God, did Sherlock ever trim them? "And you can't help but respond to it."

"If you keep doing that I won't be able to sit down at all," John said, tugging at Sherlock's curls where he still had a hand buried in them. "I'm ok with admitting that I'll need a recovery from this before we start anything new."

"And what if I decided to focus my attention elsewhere?"

'_Oh, Christ, fu-!'_ John barely had time to discern the contact for what it was before Sherlock's finger made another sweep along the crack of his arse, not deep enough to touch his opening but the intent behind it was clear and God, how did Sherlock do that when John was only thinking of it two minutes ago?

"You are aware that, just because you're a little sore in one area, it doesn't mean that I haven't catalogued the full range of activities that I can do your body," Sherlock said, his voice deepening until it was almost a growl in his throat. He reached up with a hand and pulled John's fingers out of his hair, shifting position so he could lay John on his back with John looking up at Sherlock with wide eyes.

He shivered at the look in Sherlock's eyes as they roamed over his flesh, bared to the room when Sherlock pushed the sheets back from their bodies and leaving them exposed to each other. Jesus, the man's eyes were something to get lost in when Sherlock looked like this. Almost translucent, fathomless…

_Hungry_…

"I want to own you, John," Sherlock said, leaning over him until their bodies were touching, John unconsciously allowing one of Sherlock's legs to slide between his so the detective could press a knee up against the underside of John's scrotum, now drawn up tight to his groin with his arousal. "I want every inch of you laid out beneath me, trembling, desperate…" Sherlock lowered his head so when he was speaking his lips were a hairs-breadth away from John's."Submissive…"

"Yes," John whispered with the hiss of the word drawn out when Sherlock shifted his knee again to gently rub at his groin, feeling his own desire rise up inside him. Dark, forbidden fantasies that flitted across his vision with a teasing seduction that made his body writhe underneath the press of Sherlock's. "Make me, Sherlock," he murmured, staring into the detective's eyes and allowing a small hint of challenge to fill his voice. "Make me want to submit to you." Contrary to his words, his legs spread wider of their own accord, allowing Sherlock to lower both his legs in the gap John was providing to bring their groins flush against each other.

"I don't have to," Sherlock murmured, pressing his face into John's neck and scraping his teeth along the skin there, pumping his hips in shallow thrusts that rubbed them against each other in all the right places. "I don't even need to force you. Your body wants to submit on its own without your intervention."

John moaned, the sound captured by Sherlock's mouth when their lips pressed together with a passion that shook John down to his core. The feel of Sherlock's tongue in his mouth was a soft, wet sensation which completely juxtaposed the hard, rough edge of Sherlock's cock rubbing against his own, the motion needy in desire, but not desperate.

When Sherlock pulled back from the kiss to look at John's face, he knew that Sherlock had complete control of all his faculties even in the midst of what felt like an ardent make-out session and that in itself was enough to make John a little more desperate himself. He wanted to make Sherlock as crazy for this as he was, but he was still unsure as to how much he could push the boundaries of their relationship before Sherlock drew the line. How much control would he have as a submissive before Sherlock took it back from him?

"Stop thinking," Sherlock said, sitting back in order to grip John wrist's in his hands so he could pin John's hands above his head, resuming their slow grind once the desired position had been achieved. "Focus on me, on what we're doing together."

"Not much else I can do," John panted, arching his back to push up into Sherlock's body so he could feel the slick slide of their skin against each other. He flexed his hands experimentally, feeling the tight restriction of Sherlock's fingers around his wrists, and although he knew he could get out of this position if he wished, he felt no such inclination to do so. He was by no means helpless (Sherlock hadn't tied his legs down and the other man wasn't stupid enough to think he could hold John down like this against his will), but it suddenly struck him that that was the whole point.

It wasn't so much about losing control to another person.

It was about giving that control up to them.

"Oh God," John said, his words almost choking him as the realisation (something he was sure he'd had once before), lodged in his mind and body, giving him a whole new insight into the grip around his wrists. "God, Sherlock, I…"

"Yes, you understand now, don't you," Sherlock said, his eyes intensifying on John's face as he felt the shaking of John's body beneath him, flexing his fingers around John's wrists once to remind them both of where his hands were, not that John needed any reminding. Not when the hold of Sherlock's hands now tensed and relaxed in rhythm with the motion of his hips, a languid movement that had John panting for more. "I could tie you down to this bed if I wanted to," Sherlock continued, his voice husky from the exertion of their grinding. "I could restrict every one of your movements until all you could do was focus on your breathing." There was a harsher press around John's wrists as Sherlock tightened his fingers for a second longer before releasing them altogether, leaving John's hands where they were. "But we both know that if I want your body in a certain way, all I need to do is put you there. And you'll stay, won't you, John. You'll stay just where I want you even though you know it's going to hurt."

John moaned desperately at the words, pressing his hands into the pillow above his head to stop them from moving because he so badly wanted to touch Sherlock; hair, face, mouth... It didn't matter where and he was certain that the slow build of pressure in his groin would drive him mad long before he was given permission to move. "Please, Sherlock," John whispered, using the leverage from his legs to thrust his hips up and against Sherlock's groin, the hateful, logical part of his mind unaware of what the time was but unable to forget that he was needed early at the surgery. As much as he was enjoying himself at this moment, it would ruin the whole morning if he was taken into Sarah's office_ again_ for tardiness.

"You don't need to worry about the time," Sherlock said, riding the movement of John's body to deny them both of the friction. "The clock is incorrect."

It took a while for the words to filter through the lust that John was experiencing but, even so, he could only stare at Sherlock in confusion. "Incorrect?"

"Hmmm-mmmm," Sherlock affirmed, eyes alight with humour. "It's been set an hour ahead."

"An hour…?" John shut his eyes as another wave of pleasure flowed through him, the question stopping mid-way when it occurred to him that the clock wasn't controlled by any radio towers, giving Sherlock the opportunity to change it as he saw fit.

"Yes," Sherlock said and John could hear the smirk in his voice. "The time is actually twenty to six, not seven. By my calculations," another slow thrust which made John groan, "you have an extra fifty minutes on top of the limit you normally allow yourself to get to work on time." All movement stopped, prompting John to open his eyes to see what Sherlock was up to, but all the detective was doing was grinning at him. "We have yet to establish whether or not our shower can accommodate two people."

John smiled at the suspicious glint in Sherlock's eyes. "Don't be an arse; you already know the answer to that."

"Then let's skip the pleasantries, shall we?" Displaying the grace that John was continually envious of, Sherlock pushed himself up from John's body and stood next to the bed, extending a hand out for John to take, gloriously naked and completely unashamed of it.

It was a moment suspended in time for John as he looked upon Sherlock's nudity, right from the top of his head to the base of his feet. He'd only ever been in Sherlock's presence once before when the other man was devoid of everything but his sheet, and even then he'd tried to not look when Mycroft had stepped on Sherlock's only barrier from nudity to stop him from storming right out of Buckingham Palace.

Now though, it was a completely different situation. He'd always known that Sherlock was fit despite his leanness, but to have it on display and to know it was on show_ for him_ was slightly awe-inspiring. Unlike John's stockier build from when he'd been in the army, Sherlock had the look of someone who'd decided where they wanted their muscles beforehand and had placed them on their body exactly as they wished them to be. John couldn't be jealous though; he knew Sherlock was attracted to him (one didn't need to look at Sherlock's erection to deduce the evidence of that) and he knew he was definitely attracted to Sherlock, both physically and mentally.

Although he had to admit to a slight bout of nerves when he saw Sherlock's erection for what was the first time. It was one thing to have it pressed against your body in bed with a sheet covering you, but it was quite another to view it from a distance. Proportionally there wasn't anything wrong with the size of it (in neither length nor girth in comparison to the man who owned it), but nevertheless it still made John's eyes water when he thought of where Sherlock would probably want to put it.

He'd seen people take larger ones (having seen his fair share of anal porn involving larger-than-life penises which hadn't been enhanced in post-production – one had to be grateful for amateur home videos), so he knew that the human body was perfectly capable of accepting something of Sherlock's size. John just wasn't sure if it was ok as a first time for someone like him, who'd never considered the possibility of it happening to him until he found himself in his first gay relationship. Sure, it hadn't been on the cards when they'd first started this, but he couldn't say for certain that Sherlock wouldn't insist on it eventually and he wondered whether it was even allowed for a sub to take their Dom when they weren't in a scene. Was it something Sherlock would allow or had he, like John, had no experience with it? He found it disconcerting that Sherlock could deduce his love life (or his lack of it) just by looking at him, but, to John, Sherlock's sexual exploits were as elusive as the workings of the man's mind and he knew he definitely wasn't sure that he was comfortable with the idea of Sherlock being with anyone else. _'When did that happen?'_

Sherlock's fingers closed in on themselves in front of him, leaving just his index finger loosely pointing towards John. John looked up at Sherlock's face, worried that the other man was retracting his offer, but Sherlock merely raised his hand in front of his chest and crooked his finger, beckoning John to follow as he backed out of the bedroom to head for the shower.

John blinked at the image of Sherlock crooking a finger at him, and at the searing look Sherlock had given him before he'd disappeared around the door frame, for what must have been a full minute before hastily scrambling to his feet in a flurry of limbs that he knew looked nothing like the way Sherlock had risen from the bed just moments earlier. They both knew that Mrs Hudson was unlikely to be up at this time of the morning so John had no problem with wandering to the bathroom with no clothes on, and it wasn't as if Sherlock held any such petty notions of modesty.

The sound of running water reached him as he headed down the hallway towards the bathroom, the faint glow from underneath the door guiding him when the lights hadn't been switched on. He stopped outside the door and took a deep breath to gather his nerve, knowing that Sherlock was waiting on the other side. A very naked, very wet Sherlock if the sounds of water splashing were anything to go by…

Steam rushed out of the room when he opened the door, prompting John to get inside quickly before all the heat escaped from what was a medium-sized bathroom at best. Finding the door secure, he turned around to look at where the shower was and his mouth fell open; his previous guess of finding a wet, soapy Sherlock couldn't have been more accurate, but John hadn't been prepared for how_ enticing_ the other man would look in such a state. Even though the steam was starting to mist up the glass separating them, John could clearly see the shine on Sherlock's skin where the water was reflected in the lights of the bathroom, allowing him to follow the trail the soap suds ran from the top of Sherlock's shoulders, through to the dip at the small of his back and down his legs which were lightly darkened with the sparse hair decorating them. And even through the misted glass, it was apparent that Sherlock's erection hadn't abated at all.

The shower door opened, jolting John from his thoughts to see Sherlock half-smiling at him, his wet curls dropping down into his eyes. "Do you require a written invitation?"

"Hell no," John muttered, sliding into the cubicle and shutting the shower door behind him, barely making sure it was closed properly before he felt Sherlock's body press against him from behind, the sensation of wet, soapy skin sliding against his body making John moan again as he shut his eyes to better absorb all the different feelings.

"Keep your eyes closed," Sherlock said quietly in his ear, moving them around until John was beneath the spray of the hot water.

John tilted his head beneath it to ensure his hair was soaked through, letting the water flow down his face while he raised his hands to the wall in front of him on either side of the shower head. Sherlock's hands make a squelching sound behind him, then he felt those same hands on his neck and shoulders, rubbing the soap (Sherlock's own brand, an orange and grapefruit scented variety which was more expensive but of a better quality than the ones John could afford) into his skin in soothing, circular motions. Belatedly, John realised that Sherlock was bathing him, working the product onto his skin with a firmness that would help to relieve any unwanted tension and it sent another wave of emotion through his body. Sherlock's hands were like bands of steel, kneading into his muscles and coaxing them to ease their strain, clearly an effort to reduce what would be an otherwise stressful day. Even the thought of an early shift at the surgery was enough to make John wince when he knew he'd have to leave this quiet haven of hot water and relaxing massages.

Sherlock's hands slid from his shoulders and pulled his arms from the wall, bringing them down until they were at John's sides before he began to run his fingers along the length of them from the top of his shoulders and down to John's fingertips. John felt his mental processes begin to shut down as the slow massage continued, a shiver of want running through him when Sherlock located sensitive areas he hadn't been aware of before and paid special attention to them, logging the different presses and touches which made John twitch, in either irritation or need. Both reactions must have been fine to Sherlock because he was testing each area numerous times and not once did John lose the feeling that he was being taken care of, although it felt funny being an experiment when it collided with the pleasure that was flowing through him.

And Sherlock didn't stop. Once John's arms and hands were finished with, the man moved onto his back and, despite the awkward position, still managed to make John feel like his body was melting from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. His eyelids drooped over his vision, the release of endorphins into his system making his cock throb whilst making him want to fall asleep at the same time.

Slowly and methodically, Sherlock made a thorough sweep of his body; hips, thighs, calves and ankles were touched before Sherlock made him turn under the spray again, facing the detective so Sherlock could do exactly the same to his front.

John couldn't find it in himself to be embarrassed at the sorts of sounds he knew he was making when Sherlock's hands wandered from his collarbones, across his nipples (Sherlock's fingers did spend more time than was warranted rubbing soap into the little nubs with his thumbs, swirling them round in a smooth, silky rotation that made John's groin ache) and along his abdomen. Whimpers were definitely there, along with the usual moans and groans when a tight knot of muscle released its hold on his body, and Sherlock hadn't told him to keep quiet so he must have been enjoying the noises which felt quite beyond John's control.

With his eyes closed, each touch was sharper in intensity because he couldn't see where Sherlock was looking, couldn't see the other man's eyes to notice whether or not he was looking at John's face or whether he was focussed on what his hands were doing. All John knew at that moment was the liquid feel of fingers around his groin, rubbing the soap into his public hair and smoothing over his testicles before drawing the foreskin from the head of John's shaft and lightly cleaning the receptive flesh with a touch that just made John long for more.

He really shouldn't have been surprised when he felt the length of Sherlock's body press up close to his and felt his mouth taken in kiss, but he still startled when Sherlock's erection brushed along his stomach until it was pressed between them, realising with a faint shock that Sherlock was, to coin the phrase, 'rock hard'. Sherlock's arms wound their way around John's shoulders and the small of his back, pulling them closer together until almost every inch of them was touching, and John did exactly what he'd been thinking about doing since they'd started this, bringing his hands up to twine his fingers in Sherlock's hair and tugging on it to keep the kiss going.

John could feel Sherlock's hands moving across his back where they were tracing the soap and water trails that were running across his body, stopping only when he had both hands on John's buttocks with one cheek in each hand. John gasped into Sherlock's mouth when he felt those fingers flex against his skin before one finger on Sherlock's right hand slipped into his crease, pausing directly over his entrance. Once there, it gently circled the furled bud, barely skimming the edges and then pressed lightly on the centre.

It would be wrong to say that John had never been touched there by another person (he'd had prostate exams before so he'd had some experience in getting his body to accept the careful prodding on previous occasions), but this was a completely different touch. Whereas the exams had a clinical feel to them, this felt more coaxing, a gentle pressure without the sudden intrusion or the texture of latex gloves against his skin, so when Sherlock pressed down with the tip and eased it shallowly past the first tight ring of muscle, using the water of the shower as an impromptu lubricant, John's eyes shot open as an unsteady pleasure thrummed in his blood.

"Relax," Sherlock soothed him when John tensed at the initial push, his anus clenching around the tip of Sherlock's finger. "Feel the way your body responds to it, not the way you've been taught to perceive it."

"I've had prostate exams before," John said, closing his eyes again and gripping his bottom lip between his teeth when Sherlock began to move his finger in slow circles inside him without pushing down any further. "It's not the first time I've had another person's fingers there."

"No," Sherlock agreed, "but this is the first time you've been touched there with an intimate intent." With a slowness that John didn't think Sherlock was capable of, he felt the tip of the detective's finger ease from his body, now intensely aware of the way his entrance closed up around the long digit, and inhaled deeply when the finger was pressed back in to the second knuckle before his hole had a chance to fully shut.

"Jesus," John panted, burying his face into Sherlock's neck and breathing in the orange and grapefruit scent of the soap he'd used on them both, trying to steady his nerves when that finger began to swirl inside him again, the movement slick from the combination of soap and water which still covered them both.

"Good?" Sherlock asked, pressing his lips to John's forehead near his hairline.

"Not sure," John said, his body clenching in a spasm as it tried to force out Sherlock's finger. He took deep breaths through his mouth and tried to focus on something else, like the way Sherlock's other hand was pressed against his back to keep him upright, and it was only than that he realised that his legs were shaking with almost all his weight supported by Sherlock's lithe frame. He pushed his hips forwards against Sherlock's body and felt a little flush of pride when his erection, which hadn't flagged at all, pressed itself against Sherlock's thigh and twitched._ 'Nope, no problems there, John.'_

"The body doesn't lie," Sherlock said, lifting his thigh a little so John's cock had more purchase. "You're enjoying this."

John wanted to laugh at that, but before the sound could begin the entire action was aborted when Sherlock's finger slipped out of him to run circles around the opening and John didn't know whether to press back against it or squirm out of Sherlock's reach. He'd never touched himself there in a sexual way; as a doctor he was careful of examining any signs of pain and discomfort before he decided on whether or not he needed treatment in that particular area, but this careful exploration of one of his most intimate places was undoing him and he couldn't balance it all in his head. He trusted Sherlock with his life, had killed for the man, so why did this suddenly feel ... wrong? "Stop," he gasped against Sherlock's neck when the thought solidified itself and made his body tense in a very unwelcome way, his fingers curling in Sherlock's hair when a spasm in his rectum actually hurt. "Stop, Sherlock."

Sherlock's finger immediately withdrew from John's arse to cup his hip, the man's other hand stroking along his shoulder blades as John fought to get his breath back. "Everything all right?" Sherlock asked, leaning back from John's head so they could look each other in the eye.

John nodded, frowning inwardly at himself when the feeling passed. "I don't know what happened." He looked down at his own body and saw that he'd lost his erection, being only half-hard now with the ache of arousal fast dissipating from his body. He'd been enjoying himself, sharing his body with Sherlock in a new and untested way; what had changed it?

"Look at me, John," Sherlock said, voice soft. John did and was surprised to see that Sherlock didn't look mad at the turn of events, merely intrigued, as though it was just another puzzle to solve. "You didn't do anything wrong," Sherlock assured him, leaning forward to nuzzle their faces together. "It's something we can investigate a bit later when we have more time."

"I was enjoying it," John stressed, wanting to make it clear to Sherlock even though he knew there probably wasn't any need. He didn't like disappointing his lovers and he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd done anything less here, even with Sherlock's conviction that it was something they could sort out later. "You felt good in me."

"I know," Sherlock said, reaching around John to turn the water off before it went cold. That done, he pulled his arms from around John's middle and rested his hands on John's hips, a calculating expression on his face. "We don't have enough time this morning but we can try it again later when you come back."

"You already know what's wrong, don't you," John said, a flash of accusation in his voice.

Sherlock didn't refute it. "I have my suspicions, yes, but you need to be an active participant before I can test them." He opened the shower door and stepped out, reaching for a towel and passing it to John before taking another from the rack to wrap it around his middle. John didn't know whether he should be happy or not that Sherlock still had an erection, the man adjusting it under the towel so it wasn't tenting the fabric. When he looked back at Sherlock's face the detective gave him a small smile, one without teeth, and prompted John to start drying himself.

"What happens if I can't do that? Anal sex?" John asked, immediately hating himself when the words tumbled from him but unable to stop the questions when they refused to stop bugging him.

"If anal play is something that we both truly want, then we will find a way to work around it," Sherlock said confidently, leaning back against the bathroom wall while he watched John dry himself off. "For your sake, John, please don't worry yourself unnecessarily."

There wasn't anything more John could say to that except to nod and when Sherlock smiled at him again, with the action somehow full of a deeper yearning, it certainly went a long way to dispel the negative feelings that were swirling around inside his gut, especially when Sherlock looked as good as he did now.

It was only later, when he was finishing getting ready for work that John was disturbed by a loud noise coming from Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock had left the bathroom before John had completely finished and it had only been a few minutes later when he'd heard Sherlock rush to his own room with a lot of banging around before it suddenly stopped. Unperturbed by the lack of noise in the flat, John continued to get ready for his shift as he normally would, using the routine of getting dressed and eating breakfast to help settle his mind.

Just as he was about to put his shoes on, Sherlock came into the living room, fully dressed, and grabbed his coat from the back of the door, putting his scarf on in quick movements. "New case?" John asked, finishing the ties on his shoe laces.

"Unavoidable, I'm afraid," Sherlock muttered, pacing in front of the fireplace and typing frantically on his phone. "I need to depart for Moscow immediately."

While he'd been watching Sherlock pace, John had taken that moment to take a sip of his coffee and promptly ended up spitting it back into his cup to avoid getting it all over himself. "Moscow? As in Russia? Do you even speak Russian?"

"конечно," Sherlock replied in what sounded like fluent Russian and John scowled at him, knowing that he had no way of knowing whether or not Sherlock was just waffling utter bollocks at him.

"All right, smarty-pants. So what's happened in Moscow?"

Sherlock didn't respond at first, watching when John stood up to fix his tie in the mirror above the fireplace and moving to intervene. "A political figure-head has gotten himself into trouble apparently," he explained while doing up John's tie. "He wants me to prove that he didn't commit a murder so he can avoid a trial which can result in the death penalty."

"I didn't think Russia had a death penalty," John asked, watching Sherlock's face as the other man finished the knot and set it in the centre of his shirt.

Sherlock scoffed. "Politics is a waste of time. The murder itself is the only reason I'm going; I already know that the accused didn't commit it but I still need to see the crime scene first hand to examine the evidence before it goes to trial."

John glanced at his watch, cursing when he saw he only had ten minutes before he had to leave. "Do you have any idea how long it will take?"

"Examining the scene itself should be easy," Sherlock said, finishing on his phone and slipping it into his coat pocket. "The trial itself may be trickier so I don't expect to return until the weekend."

John mentally counted the days. "That's three days from now."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, unfortunately. The work still drives me, John, I don't want to purposely mislead you on that account, but for me it couldn't have come at a worse time." Sherlock stepped forward into John's space, sliding a hand out to circle John's waist. "There are unexplored possibilities about you, Doctor Watson," he said and John felt something being pressed into his right hand, a tube of some sort as Sherlock leant down to kiss him lightly across his mouth.

When they both pulled back from each other, John bought the tube up so he could see it, his eyes widening when he read the label. "'Maximus Anal Lubricant,'" he read aloud, turning back to look at the other man.

Sherlock smirked. "I am making it a personal endeavour to find each and every one of those possibilities."

Just as Sherlock went through the living room door, another question dawned on John that he couldn't wait for three days to be answered. "Sherlock, wait a minute! How do you know this stuff is any good?"

"Oh please," Sherlock drawled, coming back around the door so only his head was showing. "As if I'd let you use something on yourself that I hadn't tested beforehand." His eyes flicked to the bottle John still had clenched in his right hand before bringing those eyes back up to John's face and, much to John's disbelief, winking at him. "Quite stringently in this case, I can assure you."

_To be continued_

**A/N 2: Maximus Anal Lubricant is a brand sold on a website called 'LoveHoney'. Check out the site if you want; it's fab! (Consenting adults only, of course *wink*) **


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.**

**A/N: Well, that took longer than expected...**

**Thank you to everyone who's read/commented/rated in the time I've been away, you're all awesome! xxx**

**Quick note: I noticed in the previous chapter that I referred to Sherlock's knuckles on his finger without explicitly telling anyone which knuckle it was... There is still some misuse of the which one is the first/second/third so for continuity's sake, here is the order that I use for this story.**

**The first knuckle is nearest the palm and the third knuckle is the one at the end of your finger. Just so we're clear ^^**

**By the way, the next chapter shouldn't take so long because I already have it drafted in my head and I know exactly where I'm going with it. I was going to add it onto the end of this one as a continuation but this part ended naturally on its own and it didn't feel like it needed it. So hence another chapter! I don't know about you, but I'm really excited...**

**Anyway, enough from me.**

**Enjoy!**

Part Eight

The first text arrived when John reached the surgery, only ten minutes before the start of his shift, with the sound from his jacket pocket alerting him to the incoming message as he hung it up on his coat rack. A quick glance at the clock confirmed that he still had another fifteen minutes before his first patient was due for their appointment, but when he opened the message he began to wish that he'd just left his phone where it was.

**Remember that you're not allowed to come without my permission – SH**

As if he could let himself forget that minor detail, the memory of the lubricant bottle burned into the nerve-endings of his hand where he had held it for a moment after Sherlock's departure, before tossing it onto the sofa and rushing to catch a taxi before he was late for work.

His phone trilled again, jolting him from the memory as he opened up the next message and read another of Sherlock's texts, sent seconds ago.

**That doesn't mean that you're not allowed to experiment – SH**

_'__Experiment?'_ The very word was enough to conjure images that were in no way appropriate on a Wednesday morning, especially when he was at the surgery and preparing to see a new patient who had just transferred over to them. He sat down carefully behind his desk, hoping to God that he wasn't blushing when his arse came into contact with the seat and pressed against tender muscles, the brief flare of pain making his jaw clench. If he was_this_ sensitive after only ten strikes, how would he manage when the number went up? Shaking his head, he opened his phone again and typed a reply back to Sherlock, having a strong suspicion of what it was Sherlock was hinting at but not wanting to take any chances.

_What the hell are you talking about?_

Barely a minute passed before his phone went off again; John tried not to berate himself too much when he eagerly opened the new message.

**I did leave you the lubricant for a reason. I was unaware that I would have to explain its purpose – SH**

_Haha, very funny_

**Sarcasm doesn't become you, John – SH**

_No, but you seem to bring it out in me. And how the hell am I meant to 'experiment' without getting off?_

**You're an army doctor. If you can handle operating on soldiers in a warzone, you are perfectly capable of convincing a few tense rings of muscle to relax – SH**

_Sherlock!_

**Imagine I'm the one doing it – SH**

_'__Christ…'_ All John had to do was think back to their time in the shower; although it hadn't ended in the way that he'd hoped for, the sensory memory of Sherlock's finger slipping inside him, slick and smooth and the feeling of his arse clenching around it… It was an effort to remember that it had only been the tip.

His phone trilled again.

**I've seen you looking at my fingers, you know. When I'm tuning my violin or focussing my microscope on a sample. You've been fantasizing about them, wondering how I'll use them on you instead – SH**

_How do you…? No, don't answer that_

**Why? Are you hard, John? Stupid, of course you are. Highly inappropriate when you're working. What would your patients think of you, aching with arousal behind your desk as you diagnose them? What would happen if they knew what had caused it? – SH**

Oh, he was going to kill Sherlock the next time he saw him. Slowly and painfully, with the other man tied down so he wouldn't be able to move…

Another message.

**Can you imagine the looks on their faces if they found out? Would they be disgusted? Revolted? – SH**

Out of all the things John liked to attribute himself with, a humiliation kink certainly hadn't been one of them. And yes, he could imagine it; in full colour, 3D imagery, the works. The whispered words behind his back and eyes that glared over the rims of spectacles; the warnings spread of perversion within the surgery concerning a certain doctor, ex-army, who got his kicks from what most people would consider an abusive relationship. God, he was certainly going to Hell because the thought of it was enough to make his breath shudder in his throat, not with shame, but with desire. He could almost hear the sound of Sherlock's voice in his ear; perhaps the detective's hand would be on the back of his neck, displaying his ownership of John's body to the people around them, deep baritone stroking his nerves and making him tremble.

Another message and two minutes before his next patient was due. With fingers that shook, he opened up the last message he would be able to look at until the end of his shift.

**Or would they be envious? – SH**

_'__Damn you, Sherlock.'_

oOo

It wasn't the first time John had had to treat a patient whilst trying to hide an erection from them, but he'd be damned if it was going to happen again on his watch. Not only was it uncomfortable (he couldn't exactly reach into his pants to adjust himself), but it was also embarrassing and had the potential to affect the quality of his care for his patients. It was especially disconcerting when he considered the fact that it was that very embarrassment that had kept his erection going throughout his shift, although a small part of him was quietly satisfied at how well he'd handled it in the end.

Luckily for him, his patients were too concerned with their own problems to focus on John's_ difficulties_ and he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. The very potential of strangers noticing his arousal was enough to make him sweat behind his desk and it wasn't something he had any desire to experience again in the future. Well… not with his patients at least, not if he had any say in it.

If he was also honest with himself, the distinct lack of emergency cases meant that he had more time to reflect on what had happened that morning; specifically, the incident in the shower. He knew that Sherlock wasn't disappointed in him; the man was too well-versed in how the human body reacted when under pressure to discount how John was feeling in favour of his own needs, but John couldn't shake the feeling that it was something he should have controlled a bit better. Trying to understand it from an objective viewpoint was damn near impossible though because he couldn't view his own body with the same attitude that Sherlock had for his, couldn't fathom referring to his physical being as 'transport'.

Self-reflection was something that his therapist had quoted to him more than once, so he figured it couldn't hurt to try and sort through his own feelings on the matter. He knew that his reaction had nothing to do with his upbringing or things he had seen in the war. His parents had been nothing but supportive when they found out his sister had a girlfriend, so he knew it didn't stem from any indirect homophobia, and he'd seen enough soldiers turn to each other in Afghanistan to know that he didn't have a problem with the physical aspect of it. Nor was he particularly religious, despite having been brought up in a community that prided itself on traditionalist standards and a firm belief in God, Queen and country - in that order.

It was probably inexperience, but even that didn't seem to answer all the questions as to why it had happened in the first place. He hadn't been lying when he'd told Sherlock that he'd had prostate exams before, yet this was a completely different context. The exams had been for a physical health check; Sherlock's intention was something very different but not wholly unwelcome. Yes, the prostate exams hadn't been arousing in the slightest (they were never designed to be), so having his gland prodded and stroked had done nothing for him sexually. John wasn't sure whether it was because he'd unintentionally blanked out any pleasurable sensations at the time, but Sherlock's finger hadn't gotten that far to see whether the theory was justified. Nor did he view himself as a man who displayed his masculinity to other males to prove his dominance over them. He was by no means an alpha but he wasn't on the lowest rung of the ladder either, so maybe it was some misplaced sense of domination that had caused it.

Experimentation was the only likely way forward than but Sherlock wouldn't be back until the weekend and John wasn't sure he could wait that long. Now he had inklings of what was wrong, he wanted to put them to the test, see if he could overcome them, but he wasn't sure how to do that without Sherlock there to help him.

Any further reflection on his part was cut short when his shift ended on time for once, and he arrived back at the flat just after five pm, two brown paper bags in his arms and the key to the flat itself set between his teeth for a lack of anywhere else to hold it. Getting up the stairs to the flat was always a tricky business when one was in the situation that John found himself in on quite a number of occasions, but thankfully it wasn't impossible. Sherlock had never seen helping with the shopping as an activity that was worthy of his time, which meant that John had more than enough practise managing on his own. Precariously balancing the two loads in one arm, he opened the door to the flat and side-stepped into the living room before unceremoniously dumping the whole lot on the kitchen table, for once devoid of Sherlock's experiments, and pulled out his mobile.

There weren't any more texts from the detective but there was a missed call from the man, timed almost after John's shift had ended at the surgery. Sherlock never called unless it was an emergency, and even than he still preferred to text, so he clearly hadn't taken into account the possibility that John would go and do shopping afterwards. Without any hesitation he dialled Sherlock's number, listening frantically to the ringing on the other side before Sherlock finally answered on his end. "Hello, John." A smooth intonation, almost a purr across the miles separating them and completely at odds with what John had been expecting.

"Sherlock! Are you all right? I missed your call, what's wrong?" Ok, so he hadn't meant to come across as worried as he sounded, but Sherlock would have probably picked up on it anyway.

"Yes I know, I purposely hung up so you would have the missed call," Sherlock said, voice tinged with humour. "And no, I haven't been kidnapped by the Russian mafia yet so there isn't anything wrong."

There were so many things wrong with that sentence that John couldn't decide whether to be incensed that Sherlock had purposely called him to make him worry, or whether he should be worried about what the detective had been doing on his first day in Russia. "Yet? What do you mean 'yet'?"

"Exactly what I said, John, do try to keep up. I did have a meeting with the Don though. He said to pass a message onto you saying that he's a fan of your blog, although I cannot fathom why."

"You? You met with…" Why did the English language decide to desert him now, when this was quite possibly the first time he had Sherlock on the phone since he'd met the man? No, he didn't have time to think about that now, not when the most pressing matter still needed answering. "So you're not hurt?"

He heard Sherlock's huff of exasperation. "I am unhurt in either a physical or mental capacity. If there is any way I can make myself clearer to you, please indulge me."

John released the breath he'd been unconsciously holding, his relief palpable. It was all very well that Sherlock sounded like himself on the other end of the phone, but that didn't necessarily mean that he wasn't in any danger. Sometimes the man could come across as too in-character for John's peace of mind, particularly when he couldn't tell if Sherlock was in a situation that would normally demand John's intervention to keep them both safe. "So why did you call me? You never call."

"I assume you're back at the flat," Sherlock said.

_'Avoiding the question,'_ John thought, irritably. "Yes, I've only just got back from doing the shopping though." Which still needed to be put away but he didn't mention that, unwilling to give Sherlock an excuse to terminate the call.

"The shopping can wait," Sherlock said almost immediately. "There has been a delay in the proceedings of the trial due to the evidence I located at the crime scene; my services won't be required until tomorrow at the earliest despite my attempts to negotiate with the police force."

"And?" John asked, looking at the bags on the table and thinking about the frozen items that would need to be put away first.

"And?" Sherlock parroted back to him, voice again laced with humour. "Why would I be calling you when I'm facing this evening alone in an understaffed hotel in a room that doesn't have central heating? Sounds like a marvellous way to pass the time, John, but surely I can think of something better…"

It was only than that the meaning behind Sherlock's words clicked. Like, actually clicked, lodging into his brain and refusing to be shaken loose. But surely Sherlock wouldn't be calling him for…_ that?_ "I don't suppose this has anything to do with you missing me and just wanting to hear my voice," John said, swallowing around a dry throat.

"What would you like to hear me say?" Sherlock asked. "That I wanted to hear your voice because I missed you, or because I wanted to hear what it sounds like as you're coming with your own fingers buried inside you?"

The mental image that accompanied Sherlock's words seared through John's head, his breath gasping in his chest and his erection, which hadn't disappeared completely since Sherlock left this morning, giving a warning throb in his trousers. "Jesus, Sherlock… We haven't even decided if this is something we want yet."

"Purely because we only have one set of data upon which we can draw from," Sherlock said. "More information is required before we can come to any conclusions."

"And you thought that," John quickly glanced at his watch, "just gone five o'clock in the afternoon was a good time to try and convince me to have an orgasm over the phone." Not that John was fooling himself. Being an advocate of a healthy sex life, he very rarely needed any persuasion on that subject and he wasn't about to tell Sherlock that he'd been thinking the exact same thing only a few hours previously.

"Taking into account the time difference between our respective locations," Sherlock replied, "mine is a respectable seven minutes past seven in the evening compared to your seven minutes past five, not that you have any qualms about what the time is when you're aroused and just want to 'get off'. Nor should you limit yourself to certain periods of a twenty-four hour clock in which to seek sexual gratification."

John really didn't have anything to say to that, logical as Sherlock's thought process was, but he never thought he'd see the day when he'd hear Sherlock defending his right as a healthy, young male in the pursuit of his desires. "…So where do you want me?" God, he was going to be in so much trouble, giving Sherlock an open-ended question like that.

"Go to my room," Sherlock said, sounding alarmingly calm despite the intensity of what they were about to do, "and pick up the lubricant on your way there. You'll need it."

Breath escaping him in a whoosh, John wandered over to the sofa and picked up the bottle he'd discarded earlier that morning, turning it around so he could read the label again. Christ, was he even ready for this? Sliding a thumb over the name on the bottle, he clutched it in his right hand and walked towards Sherlock's bedroom, taking in the rumpled sheets and the scent of his lover / flatmate as he entered the room, the curtains still drawn against the darkness of what had been a bright day. "I'm here," he said into the phone, voice steady, turning around to shut the door behind him.

"Put the phone on loudspeaker and put it on the bedside table," Sherlock ordered.

John did as he was told, making it clear to Sherlock when the phone was on the table by emphasizing the slight click of the plastic touching the wood. "Done."

"Do you still have the lubricant?" Sherlock asked and John found himself nodding before he realised that Sherlock couldn't see him.

"Right here," he said, twirling the bottle around in his hands to look at the instructions. Jeez, who really needed instructions for this, seriously?

"Good. Put it on the table next to the phone and take your clothes off."

The world stopped on its axis for all of five seconds as John stared at the phone, his hands stilling on the bottle. "I'm sorry, what?"

Sherlock sighed, an audible exhale in the call. "I want you naked, John. Don't make me repeat myself."

"…Right." He put the bottle on the table, paused for another second, and began taking his clothes off without trying to think about what he was doing beyond slipping the buttons of his shirt through their respective holes. Making sure he took his shoes off before his trousers. The usual mundane way he would undress before he went to bed, except this was completely different and there wasn't any possible way for him to escape that. The last bit of clothing slipped from his body, landing on the floor with a quiet swoosh and making the air swirl around his ankles, the touch intimate in a way that he'd never associated with it before. He cleared his throat softly to distract himself, looking at the lubricant and his mobile in turn. "Done."

"Take the phone and lubricant and lie down so you're on your back, facing the ceiling. Be sure to keep the bottle within reach of your hands."

John followed Sherlock's instructions, squirming with pleasure when the silk teased his skin and glided across his body, the softness of Sherlock's pillows cradling the back of his head when he pressed into them. Curious, he looked down the length of his torso and saw the head of his cock looking back at him, hard enough that it was lying flat along his stomach rather than pointing straight up at the ceiling. Looking at the state of his own body, John secretly hoped that he'd never get used to the luxury of Sherlock's bedding purely because the utter sinfulness of the silk made this whole situation deliciously naughty in a way that being in his own bed would never be. "Ready," he said, a little breathless now, dropping his head back on the pillow.

"Bring the phone closer to your mouth but be careful not to dislodge it," Sherlock said, and when John moved the phone to its new position, his agreement with John's placing was a sigh of pleasure down the line. "Much better, John. Now, I want you to follow my instructions exactly; I will know if you do something different."

"I'm surprised you didn't want to use Skype for this," John murmured, turning his head towards the phone. "I'd have thought you'd want to see me when I… you know."

"The first time I see your hole penetrated, I will be between your legs watching it happen," Sherlock said. "A computer screen is a poor substitute."

"Except for crime scenes below a seven," John joked, although the words were difficult because it felt like all the air had been sucked from the room. Sherlock really saw him as better than a crime scene?

"Don't be an idiot," Sherlock chided him. "You're much more interesting than a seven."

John laughed. "Point taken. So what do you want me to do?"

"Close your eyes if you haven't done so already," Sherlock murmured, "and bring your hands above your head." Wordlessly, John did as asked and waited. "When you're there," Sherlock continued, "I want you to stretch your body out. Feel the muscles in your arms flex as you hold them above your head; the way your toes stretch away from you when you ease the tension in your legs and feet. Keep doing this until I tell you to stop."

Hmmm, yes, that was starting to feel good. The rhythmic stretching of his muscles was working wonders on the aches and pains that a strenuous day could bring, each flex of movement encouraging his body to relax after the tension was held and then released.

"Very good, John," Sherlock's voice purred, hearing the groans of John's pleasure as his body sank further into the mattress. "Now, bring your hands to your collar-bones, your right hand crossed over your left. Once you're in position, I want you to slide your hands down your body slowly, across your chest and down your abdomen, only stopping when your hands separate above your hips. Do not touch your erection while you're doing this and don't stop at any point along the way."

Naturally, John's inclination was to stop at the exact points that would provide him with the most pleasure, unable to contain his gasp when his fingers slipped over his nipples and tickled along the sensitive sides of his ribs and hip bones. He did this another three times, each pass becoming slower as he focussed on the heat from his own hands and the way the pads of his skin felt against the hair on his chest; the way they felt when they brushed against his stomach and teased at the firm musculature that he still retained.

He was just about to start the fifth pass when Sherlock told him to stop. "How do you feel now, John?"

"Sensual," John replied, a dreamy grin taking over his face. "Like I could lie here forever just touching myself."

Sherlock made a noise down the phone but John was unable to discern if it was a chuckle or a moan at his words. "Spread your legs," Sherlock ordered, "and bring your heels up until they touch your buttocks."

Biting into his lower lip, John did as he was told; bringing his feet up until he felt the heels of his feet contact his glutes. This change in position was going to put a strain on his quadriceps eventually, but when he allowed his legs to drop slightly on either side they relived the pressure somewhat and opened the areas on his inner thighs and groin for further exploration. "What next?" he asked Sherlock, keeping his hands plastered to the mattress to avoid the temptation of giving his cock any stimulation before Sherlock ordered him to.

"Patience," Sherlock murmured, and John had the fleeting thought that Sherlock knew exactly how low that voice could go because_ damn…_ "You're aching for this now aren't you? Yes, of course you are; you're naked in my bed, writhing around on my sheets with my voice in your ears. Well, don't expect relief any time soon. I'm not done with you yet; we haven't even started." There was a pause, just the gentle exhale of Sherlock's breaths on the phone making John aware he was still there, before Sherlock spoke again. "Now I want you to feel yourself properly. Slide your hands down your body and stroke along the inside of your thighs."

Moaning his gratitude at_ finally_ being able to move, John did as directed, making sure to drag his fingertips across his more sensitive areas before he reached the creases where his thighs met his groin. His cock felt like a brand of fire along his belly, twitching in its need for attention and flushed at the tip, but he determinedly ignored it, pressing his head back against the pillows as his hips thrust upwards. Panting breaths filled the air when John slid his hands along his inner thighs after teasing himself, feeling the pressure of his hands and the wantonness of his position, open and needful for the right touch. "God, Sherlock, what you do to me…" he groaned, back arching when a combination of Sherlock's words and his own actions made the ache in his cock intensify. "I wish you could see this."

"Tell me," Sherlock said and his voice had a breathless quality to it that made John wonder whether the other man was touching himself as he spoke to John, maybe in a mimicry of what he was asking John to do. "How does it make you feel being this way? Spread out and waiting for my permission before you can touch yourself, unable to relieve some of that ache you must be feeling?"

"It feels fantastic," John replied, drawing out the words slightly to emphasise their importance. "I feel… I'm aching so much right now, I can't even tell you. I want your hands on me, Sherlock; I want you to be the one doing this to me."

Sherlock didn't respond to John's words for a moment but John wasn't concerned; if the telltale hitch in Sherlock's breathing was anything to go by, John's words were also having their desired effect. If Sherlock's mission was to keep John in this position for an unknown length of time, at the mercy of Sherlock's words, he was damn well going to make sure that Sherlock was suffering right there with him.

"Do you want to know what my hands are doing?" Sherlock asked after a moment, and John had a brief second of explicit imagination before Sherlock spoke again. "They're on my cock, John. My right hand is pushing my foreskin over the glands at the head while my left is cupping my testicles, rolling them around in their sack and tugging at them when the need arises."

John's body shuddered on the bed with the visual that Sherlock had painted for him, his fingers clenching on his thighs and a moan spilling from him as his imagination filled in the blanks between Sherlock's words. The thought of Sherlock in some seedy hotel room, naked on the chair or the bed and luxuriously stroking himself, that hot, hard length of his being teased and fondled… John's head twisted on the pillow beneath him, his breath coming out in short, quick gasps. "Sherlock, please. Please let me touch myself, God, I can't…" His fingers twitched again, a motion that brought them closer to his erection which felt hot and swollen between his legs. "Please…"

"Oh, John, I wish you could hear yourself," Sherlock murmured. "You're almost there now; you must be desperate for it." A deep sigh drifted down the line and John whimpered at the sound of it, of Sherlock's pleasure. "Lift your legs up until your thighs are pressed to your chest," he said. "I want you spread open for me."

"Yes, Sherlock," John replied, moving his legs into position and feeling his skin flush hot on his face as the entirety of his groin was exposed. His cock jumped on his belly and he gasped in shock when he felt the sensation of liquid cooling on his skin, realising with another jolt that he was leaking pre-come onto his own body.

"Reach around your legs," Sherlock continued. "Take a hold of one buttock in each hand and pull them apart so I can imagine that you're exposing that tight, little pucker for me as I watch."

With hands that shook slightly, John followed Sherlock's order, getting a good grip on his flanks before slowly pulling them apart. The air was cool on his skin and he exhaled sharply when he felt the sweat drying around his entrance, his body flexing it in an instinctive need to close it up. Head thunking back on his pillow, he tried to concentrate on his breathing, listening to Sherlock's own quick exhales to help ground himself.

"Let's have some fun with it," Sherlock purred. "Slick your fingers, John. It's time you prepared yourself for me."

"Oh my God…" John fumbled for the bottle at his hip, hastily flipping off the cap and drizzling some of the lubricant onto his fingers, ensuring that they were coated properly before flipping the lid and tossing the bottle on the bed. "Please, Sherlock."

"Touch yourself there," Sherlock said, his voice nearly a growl. "Stroke the lubricant over your hole and tell me how it feels. Leave nothing out."

The first touch of his index finger to his entrance made John hiss, his eyes clenching in their sockets. Releasing the breath, he gave himself permission to prolong the contact, gently rubbing light circles around his opening and stroking the furled edges before dipping into the centre, mimicking the action that Sherlock had done to him in the shower. "Feels odd," he said eventually. "But good. It's hot, hotter than with gloves on, and… good."

"Just good?" Sherlock asked and John could hear the smile in his voice.

Ok, it felt bloody fantastic actually, but John was coming close to that invisible barrier that had stopped him in his tracks with Sherlock this morning. He could feel it rising up inside him, although at a slower pace because the arousal in his blood was fighting it, pressing down and trying to force it into submission. If only he could finish it off… "Sherlock, I need to touch myself," he gasped, the realisation hitting him square in his stomach. "Please, I don't want to come, not yet, but-"

"Do it," Sherlock ordered, interrupting John's begging. "Stroke yourself and, when you do, I want you to penetrate yourself at the same time."

His left hand found his cock almost desperately, the first tug forcing a cry from him with the surge of pleasure that forced its way through him. He was so hard and it felt so good to finally have his hand there, rubbing along the rigid length and finding the rhythm that suited him. Remaining true to Sherlock's order, John slipped his index finger inside himself, grunting at the unexpected tightness of it and the way he clenched around his own digit, the strokes on his cock faltering as he grew accustomed to the sensation.

"Talk to me, John," Sherlock said; his own small sounds of pleasure audible above John's frantic breathing.

"It's so tight," John said, cautiously thrusting the tip of that finger inside himself and timing it with the strokes on his erection. "So hot and tight… Yessss," the last word drawn out when he became braver and pushed his index finger all the way in to the first knuckle, gently twirling his finger along the walls of his passage as it accepted the careful intrusion. Thank God he'd added as much lubricant as he had, he thought, the slickness of the product allowing for smoother movements as he stimulated himself. He gradually set up a thrusting motion between the first and second knuckle, shivering at the sensation of his arse clinging to his finger every time it withdrew before being sucked back inside, a very warm welcome to what was becoming an erotic act in its own right. "It's in me," he moaned, turning his head so he was facing the phone. "My finger's inside me, Sherlock."

"I know, John, I can hear it in your voice. You sound so good," Sherlock murmured. "Keep going, don't hold anything back."

_'Fuck yes.'_ Long seconds passed while John kept up the penetration of his body, experimenting with different angles and pressures, sometimes removing his finger altogether so he could feel his opening clenching around nothing, as though hungry for anything that would fill the void left behind. The first thrust of his hips was unsteady as John got used to the stretch, but soon natural instinct took over and his body found the pace of it, a movement that made his toes curl as the sinuous threads of desire crept their way through his limbs and centred on his cock.

"Add another one," Sherlock ordered, definitely more breathless than he'd been moments before.

Tentatively, John withdrew his index finger and pressed his middle finger alongside it, concentrating on relaxing his body so that it accepted the digits as a whole. "Nnnggg, God, Sherlock, that's…" It hurt, but that was to be expected; he'd only ever taken one finger before so two was going to be different, of course it was. To ease the stretch and burn that the extra finger was causing, he lightly pressed against the rim of his arse with his thumb, stroking lightly to convince it to relax and quickening the strokes on his cock with his other hand to counteract the pain. "Ok," John panted towards to the phone, a verbal indication that he was ready to continue.

"Slowly now," Sherlock said. "Can you feel how open you're becoming? How your body is clenching on your fingers, encouraging you to thrust faster, perhaps add more of your fingers? You would be so full but it wouldn't be enough, would it. No, you're going to want something much better than that and I'm going to give it to you."

"Give it to me," John gasped, his fingers already starting to thrust again, matching each twist of his fingers with a tug on his cock and moaning when he realised how close he was getting, only one thought running around in his head. _'I'm fucking myself, I'm fucking myself, I'm fucking myself, I'm-'_ The words caused the ache in his groin to spike, his back bowing as he hurtled towards his climax. "Sherlock… I'm… I'm gonna-"

"Do it, John," Sherlock ordered, the detective unable to hold back his groans. "Fuck yourself, do it now!"

Almost immediately after the words had left the other man's mouth, John's body was curling in on itself, high pitched whimpers coming from him as his cock jetted come onto his chest and stomach, violent spasms racking his frame as he tried desperately to keep fucking his fist whilst thrusting his fingers into his arse. It was so intense and powerful that he couldn't say anything, every muscle locking up tight, and it _hurt_ but it was so _good_. After what seemed like a lifetime, his body finally shuddered out the last dregs of his orgasm, his legs flopping down on the bed with his arms resting on the mattress, the only sound being his loud pants as he tried to get his breath back.

"Well, that certainly exceeded expectations," Sherlock said smugly and John could just imagine the grin on the detective's face at that moment. Or maybe it wouldn't be a grin, but a self-satisfied little smirk, with curls dropping down into eyes which were sated and happy and if John kept up with that train of thought he might have to rethink his refractory period.

"It was bloody fantastic actually," he replied, although he couldn't help his wince when he felt his hole clench reflexively when he stretched. The sensation was odd now, like it felt more natural to have his fingers inside him and now his body had to adjust to the abruptness of their retreat. He would need to test it out again later, preferably with Sherlock's fingers in place of his own, but he couldn't see Sherlock refusing him.

"Something to be repeated when I return," Sherlock said, and John couldn't help his nod of agreement.

"Hmmm, yes. Definitely."

_To be continued_


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.**

**A/N: Me again! ^^**

**Thank you all for your patience, you're fabulous! *mwah* I hope this part was worth the wait! Let me know what you think, your words are always valued! xxx**

**Enjoy!**

Part Nine

It was purely coincidental that the next day formed a part of John's pre-booked holiday and, given the way he was feeling that morning, he was labouring under the impression that hindsight was a wonderful thing. He still hadn't gotten out of bed, the absence of any alarms allowing him to drift to out of sleep in a manner that left him feeling refreshed and delightfully slothful with his arms wrapped around one of Sherlock's pillows. He yawned upon first awakening, his nostrils filling with the scent of Sherlock; his aftershave, his body wash and of course the aroma of the man himself. All in all it was a location that John was loathe to remove himself from, especially when his morning wood happily announced its arrival by pressing into the mattress in a smooth glide, nerve endings sparking with pleasure but not arousal just yet.

Surprised, John smothered a giggle into his pillow, amazed at his body's ability to be up for it again so soon because he wasn't twenty-five anymore but, then again, he couldn't remember if his sex life had ever been this exciting. After having been denied his orgasm for the majority of yesterday, he had to admit that his climax over the phone had been well worth the wait and he would probably be up for a repeat of the same if it meant he could look forward to a morning of drowsy, endorphin filled bliss (hopefully with an equally warm, snoozing Sherlock to wrap himself around instead of a pillow).

The clock's digits glowed beside him on the bedside table, confirming his suspicion that it was indeed very late in morning and that it was about time he got up to face the world. He started moving his body slowly, stretching out his limbs, back and torso and establishing that, even with his rather adventurous exploration last night, he hadn't done himself any damage (there wasn't a remote chance of it, actually, since he hadn't been vigorous enough in his thrusting), only the memory of his fingers being inside him giving any indication that it had happened in the first place. Blinking at the light shining behind the curtains of Sherlock's bedroom, he rolled over onto his back and ran his hands down his body in the same way Sherlock had ordered him to yesterday evening, cataloguing the way he felt to see if there was any lingering sign of Sherlock's hands on his form and slightly disappointed to find that everywhere on his body was now completely pain free.

There was nothing to suggest that his buttocks had had Sherlock's handprints on them just days ago. His nipples pebbled with the memory of Sherlock's nails twisting into them but he no longer experienced discomfort when they brushed against his shirts during the day or his fingers when he showered. That wasn't to suggest that he no longer became aroused when he thought of what had been done to him though. In fact, he was hoping that his pain-free condition wouldn't remain for long, his mind held captive by the memory of Sherlock pinning him down in this same bed, grinding their erections together and feeling his own moans spill freely from him with the tightening of Sherlock's hands around his wrists. Of being smacked over Sherlock's lap, his buttocks flaring with heat and sensation while the detective came all over his back in a primal display of territorial ownership, just after John had found his release without a single touch to his cock.

The memories were enough to make his groin ache and, considering what Sherlock had ordered him to do last night, it was clear that the other man had an agenda which involved anal penetration (at the very least), but John could only guess at what else Sherlock was planning to do to him. Knowing Sherlock, he probably had a list somewhere with different categories for each activity, perhaps a table on excel where he could measure John's reactions to certain stimuli. It left him wondering what ones had made it to the list and, more importantly, how exhaustive that list was.

His imagination was only too happy to provide him with some of the images he'd seen on the websites when he'd been doing his research, now remembered in a completely different light with the way his face flushed warm, desire lurking underneath his skin that had yet to surface. He thought about one man who had been tied down on a bed with ropes, his arms and feet above his head so that his body was almost bent in half with his legs spread obscenely. The ropes that were tied around his feet had been looped to the corners of the headboard, leaving his body open and vulnerable to his Dom as the other man dripped hot wax along his thighs and buttocks, the wax being red in colour so it was distinguishable from the man's pale skin. There had been a link attached to the image which showed it was just a still from a video posted to the Internet, but John hadn't been of the mind to play it at the time, perhaps because the look of agony on the sub's face had been enough to put him off. When he thought of it now, he wondered how much of that agony had been begged for before it was inflicted.

Another scene and that time it had been a video that he'd stumbled across before hastily clicking off of it at the culmination of the suffering being endured. It had been of a sub having his skin pinched between wooden clothing pegs, except that a cord had been inserted between his skin and the peg. The look on the sub's face had been almost ecstatic as the Dom placed them around his chest and nipples, following the line of his body down to the inside of his thighs and the sensitive areas around the groin. Most memorably, the Dom had attached one to the patch of skin near the perineum so when the inevitable happened, the pegs being torn from the sub's body when the cord was pulled by the Dom, the sub's screams had been so heartfelt that John had been worried that the sound would echo down to Mrs Hudson in her own flat.

The name of the practise should have given it away, 'zipping' apparently, but the shock of it had still made John's hands tremble when he went to click away from the screen. However, before he'd been able to close the window, he'd seen the Dom wipe the tears away from the sub's face with his fingers and feed those drops to him, the sub licking his partner's fingers desperately, almost gratefully, although John hadn't been sure why considering the extreme amount of pain that had just been caused to his body. Looking back on it now with his own very limited experience of pain-play, the sub's face had shown nothing less than complete adoration for his Dom and John wondered whether his face had been the same after Sherlock had spanked him, remembering how beautiful Sherlock had looked and just wanting to bask in the high and the man who had created it.

Despite John's current state, slowly thrusting his hips against the sheets to relieve some of the pressure in his groin, he knew he wasn't ready for anything likezipping and he had his doubts as to whether he ever would be, but that didn't stop him imagining how the pegs must've felt on the sub's skin. The sharp pinch of the wood around his nipples and groin must have made his body ache fiercely and when the cord was pulled free, taking the pegs with it…

What would it be like? To allow Sherlock that kind of freedom over his body; to make John scream with the throbbing of it all and still beg for more, beg to be allowed to come? Shutting his eyes, John tried to remember the way Sherlock's hand had felt on his arse when he was being spanked; from the first initial slap, a tester, proceeding to the fourth, fifth and sixth when the fire was really beginning to spread over his cheeks and down his thighs. He remembered how Sherlock's hand forced heat and pain into his body, a stinging sensation that increased with each strike until he'd been writhing on Sherlock's lap, perversely pressing up against Sherlock's hand when he knew the blow was coming.

Would Sherlock tie him down in much the same manner as the bloke on the bed? Would he be gagged, blindfolded, with the only the sound of Sherlock's breathing enough to convince him the detective was still in the same room with him? Sensory deprivation in the extreme to ensure that John's overall experience became focussed on Sherlock and the pain with nothing to distract him.

God, it felt like there was so much to explore now, to discover about himself, and Sherlock wasn't even there to take advantage of it.

There wasn't any hope that there would be a repeat of last night though; the trial in Russia was happening today and Sherlock needed to disclose his findings to the jury, so he probably wouldn't hear from the detective until tonight at the earliest, possibly not even until Friday. He couldn't help but feel a little disappointed with the timing of the case Sherlock had been chosen for because, like Sherlock had said, it couldn't have come at a worst time. John tried to remain positive about it though because it had given them the chance to try something new (the phone sex) and the time spent apart allowed John to sort his head out while he came to grips with what was being expected of him.

The rule of not being allowed to come did put a spanner in the works however, given how often he was used to masturbating when Sherlock wasn't around to interrupt him, so that precise limitation meant that John would need to amend what would be his normal routine on a day's holiday. It did leave him at a loss of what to do initially, so he supposed it was fate that the postman brought with him an unexpected letter.

John popped the last bit of toast into his mouth when he heard the drop of the post at the bottom of the stairs, signalling the arrival of more bills that they wouldn't be able to settle until the end of the month. Sighing, he went down to retrieve it, putting Mrs Hudson's post underneath her door for when she woke up and idly flicked through the other letters as he made his way back to the flat, pausing at one which was addressed to himself when he didn't recognise the format. It was an unmarked letter with 'Private and Confidential' written at the top, but the typeface didn't match any of the bills he was accustomed to receiving and he hadn't signed up for anything that would require post to be sent to his home address. Chucking that particular envelope on the table, he pinned Sherlock's post on the mantle under the knife before opening his own, eyeing the other letter on the table with interest as he totted up the amount of the bills in his hands.

That done, he went and opened the new letter gingerly, pulling out a single sheet of paper and quickly ascertaining that it was a list of test results for STIs. It was only when he checked the name of the individual concerned, a Mr Sherlock Holmes, that he finally understood the significance of what it was he held in his hands though. Mentally counting back the days, he realised that the tests had been completed the day after Sherlock had taken him to the BDSM club the first time, the day after Sherlock had seen his reaction to Eric's paddling. So either Sherlock had been terrifically presumptuous or, as John was suspecting to be the case, the detective had taken what was a logical step in his own mind to ensure that he was safe before entering into a sexually active relationship.

Of course John also remembered the time when Greg had tried to force Sherlock's hand with a fake drugs bust during their first case together. Sherlock had told him in no uncertain terms that he was to shut up in front of the DI, so John knew that Sherlock had had a history with drug abuse although he didn't know the full extent of it. His flatmate had never bothered to go into the specifics of what drugs he'd been on either but, looking at the results he had now, he knew it had bothered Sherlock enough to make sure he was clean.

And the tests confirmed that Sherlock was clean; there was no doubt about it. No HIV or AIDS, no Chlamydia (that test alone told John that the other man must have had sexual partners in the past otherwise he wouldn't have been tested for it); in fact, all of the routine tests for STIs came back negative and, if nothing else, the report gave John an idea of what direction Sherlock was planning to go in their relationship without him explicitly having to say so.

Or maybe it would be better if he got Sherlock to clarify what this meant… The detective had a habit of assuming that John would understand everything that was aimed at him but, sometimes more often than not, he still needed Sherlock's ability to deduce what it was in front of him. Sure, a clean report could mean that the other man wanted them to be exclusive if unprotected sex was involved and also hinted at some of the activities they might get up to in the future, but having Sherlock send him a report and the other man actually say what he meant were two completely different things.

It didn't mean that John couldn't think about it while Sherlock was away. A half-smile forming on his lips, he wandered to the kitchen and made himself another strong brew, a quiet chuckle escaping him when he gave his imagination permission to run wild.

oOo

The rest of the week passed in a blur, with Sherlock's contact being sporadic at best until the detective landed in London on the Saturday almost as planned. His flight had been delayed by more than half a day due to the snow storms in Russia so, by the time the plane landed back in the UK, it had gone half seven in the evening. Not that John was concerned. The detective had been sure to make John aware of what was happening in both Russian and UK airspace so he was well aware of when Sherlock _wouldn't_ be back, giving him time to make sure he was in the right head-space before his flatmate returned.

The sound of the front door slamming was the only thing that preceded Sherlock's arrival back into 221B, the steps being taken two at a time until Sherlock came into the living room in a swirl of coat, scarf and the accumulated arrogance of a job well done. The man was practically glowing, his face red from the cold wind with flakes of snow in his hair and his mouth turned up in a smile when he finally looked at John.

John had been quietly making his own appraisal of Sherlock as the other man turned to close the door, feeding off of the energy Sherlock was radiating with an enthusiasm that almost stunned him. The flat had been mess free with Sherlock's departure, and quiet, but it had also been _boring_. Positively mind-numbing and his day at the surgery yesterday had been no better; a string of runny noses, three people who were convinced they had swine flu and a toddler who'd gotten into a bottle of Calpol when his parents had their backs turned. Dull, boring, tedious. Accurate descriptors only made all the more sharp when he realised that he'd missed Sherlock; the mess, the noise, the constant demands for time that John couldn't really give him but did anyway. All of it.

"Miss me?"

The question was directed at John while Sherlock was taking off his coat, slinging it onto the back of the sofa before looking back to where John was seated in his chair. Sherlock already knew the answer of course but John hadn't been trying to hide anything. There were very few things one could hide from Sherlock, and he was better at it than most because of the almost daily interactions they had anyway, but John didn't want to hide anything from him. Let Sherlock read him like an open book. That didn't mean he couldn't stash things between the pages when Sherlock wasn't looking.

"John?"

Jolted out of his thoughts, John looked up to see Sherlock holding a hand out to him, beckoning with a slight tilt of his index finger. Grinning, he got up out of his chair and took the proffered hand, the action smooth and without pause until he was pressed against Sherlock's front with his face buried in the other man's neck, their arms wrapped securely around each other. "Always," he murmured into the skin at Sherlock's throat, sighing when Sherlock turned his head so he had his nose buried in John's hair at his temple.

He felt Sherlock's hands rub along his back slowly, idly wandering up to his shoulder blades and back down to the small of his spine, pressing into the muscles there. The detective audibly inhaled and then lowered his mouth to John's right ear, pressing his lips to the lobe and the skin of his neck behind it. John felt his body freeze when the touch became more intimate; his eyes shooting open against Sherlock's neck when he felt a tongue slide over that same lobe to draw it between teeth where it was nibbled on fondly. "Do you have…" another lick. "Any idea…" a light suck between pursed lips. "How _distracting_ you've been this past week?"

John shuddered against Sherlock with the attention to one of his most sensitive erogenous zones, his breath coming out in drawn out sighs at the tingles spreading through his body. "How have I been, _unh God_, distracting you? I wasn't even with you."

"Precisely," Sherlock said, drawing back so they could look each other in the eye. "Ever since our little phone call, all I could think about was your pretty fingers buried inside that tight arse of yours and it's been driving me insane."

John grinned, his lips forming an 'O' when Sherlock took a hold of his hips so he could grind his body against John's stomach. So he could press his very hard cock against John's body. "Has that been a bit of a problem?"

"So you finally observe," Sherlock murmured, a low growl finishing the words when one grind was particularly satisfying.

This was mad. It was insane actually, but John couldn't stop it from forming inside his head, his eyes fluttering as a thought solidified itself and pounded against the barriers that he hadn't done a good job of putting up in the first place. Besides, it would feel so good wouldn't it? Sherlock was hard; hard enough that it was overriding his 'my body is just transport' mode, and he'd obviously done such a good job with the case in Moscow that surely he deserved a reward of some sort. And John had been so bloody _patient_ and the evidence of his lover's desire for him, stiff against his belly, was enough to make him toss all sense of decency out the window because he wanted satisfaction and he wanted it now. Right here, against the door that Mrs Hudson could try to walk through at any moment and he'd run out of fucks to give because it would be perfect and good and Sherlock was _home_.

He slid his hands from Sherlock's back, pressing his thumbs into the man's hip bones to get a good grip on them before insistently pushing back, Sherlock's mouth turning up in a smirk as he allowed John to press him back against the door. Tilting his head up, John took Sherlock's mouth in a kiss, a faint brush of lips and then deeper, tracing Sherlock's bottom lip with his tongue to absorb the plushness of it, seized with a desire to suckle on it until it popped from his mouth with a vibrant red hue. The desire was so strong that he was unable to deny it, eventually reaching a point where he was swapping between the top and bottom lip until both were flushed from his nibbling. Sherlock's breath was panting over his mouth when John finally slid his tongue inside to meet Sherlock's, pressing their mouths together to swallow each other's gasps. After several moments, when John was happy that he'd reacquainted himself with Sherlock's taste and the sensation of the other man pressed close to him, he decided that it was time to escalate the intensity. Taking his hands from Sherlock's hips, he slid his hands between their bodies and undid Sherlock's jacket, tugging at the crisp, white shirt until it pulled free of his dress trousers and letting his hands slide underneath the fabric to stroke across Sherlock's abdomen.

Sherlock stuttered a breath into John's mouth, huffing a little when John's hand inadvertently tickled and gasping when John's fingers found the clasp to his belt, undoing it swiftly and working on the button at the top. Above the heavy sound of their breathing the noise of the zip being lowered was a loud noise and it spurred Sherlock onto further action. One of his hands slid around John's neck to deepen the kiss while the other pushed between their bodies and cupped at John's growing erection softly, palming the length of him from root to tip. John groaned at the feeling of Sherlock's hand on him, those dexterous fingers mapping the contours of his erection almost perfectly through the fabric of his jeans before sliding lower to tease at his balls. He'd always been a man who enjoyed the occasional grind with a partner with all their clothes on, the intimacy of being touched through fabric somehow making the resulting orgasm more powerful, but his past experiences didn't hold a torch to what it felt like being touched by Sherlock Holmes. They'd barely been together for a week and already his previous relationships felt like dull embers when compared to the flare that Sherlock set off inside him; the fact that the other man knew him so well just made it all the more exhilarating.

John had barely finished lowering the zip before Sherlock's hand slid up from his neck into his hair, tightening his fingers in it and pulling John's head away from his own so they could look at each other. The tension in the room seemed to snap into focus when John made eye contact with Sherlock, his hand freezing before he had a chance to reach inside to feel that impressive erection for the first time. The fingers in his hair clenched briefly, tugging at the strands until John felt his eyes water, and when he opened his eyes again Sherlock's were gleaming. "Kneel."

Groaning at Sherlock's command (and at the resultant lick the detective gave his lips when he made the sound), John kneeled at Sherlock's feet, gasping when Sherlock stroked across his mouth with his thumb. He eyed the opening of Sherlock's trousers, watching as the cock inside them twitched and throbbed beneath Sherlock's silk boxers, and felt an answering pulse in his own trousers. Being as close as he was, it wasn't long before a different smell reached him, muskier, a dark tang at the back of his throat when he inhaled and he had the sudden desire to keep breathing in until his lungs were at capacity, full of that glorious aroma and unwilling to let it go. He heard Sherlock make a small noise above him, the noise when a particularly satisfying deduction entered his mind, and John looked up as Sherlock's hands left his head and neck.

The other man's eyes were half-lidded with desire, no doubt having seen John's reaction to the smell of Sherlock at his groin and his breathing barely restrained from becoming all-out panting. "Do it."

Unsure what it was Sherlock wanted, but having a pretty good idea because of the position he was currently in, John hesitated for a brief second before firming his resolve, leaning forward on his knees and pressing his face to the open V in Sherlock's trousers. And, God, the scent was so much stronger here. He greedily inhaled, intent on fulfilling his earlier desire, and pushed his nose against the zip until it opened more so he could brush his lips against the hardness straining towards him.

Sherlock hissed between clenched teeth as John's lips came into contact with his erection, his fingers threading through John's hair in silent encouragement. John couldn't believe he was actually doing this, couldn't have foreseen that one day he'd be on his knees for another man having their groin pressed against his face, but he certainly couldn't think of anywhere else he'd rather be. The very fact that it was Sherlock's groin was enough to make his whole body shudder with pleasure, the silk caressing his lips and the flesh beneath it as he moved his mouth over the areas that had been uncovered. The teasing strokes must have been driving Sherlock mad given the small noises that were being emitted above his head, and John allowed a small smirk to lift a corner of his mouth before devoting himself to the task at hand. After a few more minutes, and feeling slightly bolder, he opened his mouth and licked at Sherlock's cock through his boxers, finding the tip and swirling his tongue around it until the fabric was moist with his saliva. Sherlock made a sharp noise above him,_ 'sensitive,'_ before tugging on John's head to pull him back from his exploration, hatefully cut short. "Take me out."

_'God, yes.'_ With shaking fingers, John brought his hands up to Sherlock's trousers, reaching into them to palm Sherlock's erection. Christ, he could almost feel the weight of it in his hands. He found the opening for Sherlock's boxers within moments but wasn't sure if Sherlock wanted him to take him out through that opening or whether Sherlock wanted the front of his boxers pushed down so he could reach his balls as well. It didn't take John long to decide, opting to pull the boxers down so the elastic cupped underneath Sherlock's testicles, tugging at the man's trousers to loosen them around his hips so his underwear wouldn't be restricting. Sherlock's cock bobbed in front of his face, pointing at him like a thick, sordid finger with a faint arch near the tip, a delicate curve that became more pronounced when the member twitched.

Sherlock's hands withdrew from his head, instead reaching for John's own hands where they were still placed on his hips. "Feel me, John," he murmured, coaxing John's hands towards his groin.

John didn't really need the encouragement but followed Sherlock's movements, holding his breath when the fingers of his left hand were close enough to feel the heat radiating from Sherlock's cock, and gasping outright when it twitched and made contact with them. He'd never touched another man here before without latex gloves and the mental barrier that was always there between a patient and their doctor, so to feel it in another form, with that awareness of his own desire and of the person in front of him, was a new experience entirely.

Sherlock didn't say anything when he tentatively curled that hand around the base of Sherlock's cock, giving John the opportunity to savour it without his intervention and something which John was grateful for. He wanted to learn Sherlock's body from scratch with the freedom to make his own conclusions about what Sherlock liked and didn't like and whether he was doing a good job at it. Unlike medical school (where he'd spent long evenings bent over textbooks the size of his arm), this kind of practice was definitely more appealing.

He decided to start with things he knew he liked having done to his own body, making small changes to account for the size difference between their respective organs, _'not __**that**__ big a difference,'_ his mind interjected, and slowly taking in how it felt to have Sherlock's erection in his hands. Sherlock was uncircumcised but his foreskin didn't droop over the head, just enough there to allow for a smooth glide of skin against skin without being excessive. John started with a gentle stroking motion, starting at the base and moving up to the tip, experimenting with a light twist at the head and inhaling sharply when his fingers came away sticky after the fourth stroke.

Pulling those fingers away, he saw the shine on them and glanced up at Sherlock, seeing the smirk on the other man's face. "I've had a long time to think about you in this position," Sherlock said, an explanation and a completely unrepentant one at that. Unbidden, Sherlock's STI results flashed through John's head and he unconsciously licked his lips, watching as Sherlock's eyes darkened at the small action. Holding Sherlock's eyes, John brought his fingers to his mouth, sliding his tongue out to lick at them and unable to stop his eyes from shutting at the first burst of Sherlock's flavour over his taste-buds. Salty, a briny tang with the distinctive musk of something that was all Sherlock, and completely unlike the taste of a woman. He kept licking at his fingers, cleaning them of Sherlock's pre-come and chasing the last traces of it until he was sure there wasn't a morsel left, only glancing up when he heard the bitten-off moan that Sherlock gave above him. "I take it you've seen the report."

Nodding, John lowered his hand,_ 'In for a penny, in for a pound,'_ and leant forward again, opening his mouth and swiping his tongue across Sherlock's slit, an unrestrained whimper in his throat as more of Sherlock's flavour filled his mouth. Sherlock's hips thrust forward at the contact, the other man groaning deeply when John circled his tongue around the head, taking in the flavour of Sherlock's skin and the need he could feel in the tension of Sherlock's thighs and in the straining of his cock. It was so_ different_, he thought, letting his lips slide over until they met the ridge between the shaft and the tip, sucking gently and stroking with his tongue. Soft in a way, almost unbearably sensitive and Sherlock's responses were so beautiful, even with someone like him who had no experience whatsoever. With almost every throb of Sherlock's cock, more pre-come leaked onto his tongue and John squeezed his eyes shut, the better to concentrate on what he was doing to try and make the detective give him more, wondering briefly if he could make Sherlock come this way and whether he would be able to swallow it down because it couldn't be that different from his own come and he'd had no trouble the last time.

Sherlock's hands slid into his hair again; more purposeful in their intent and holding his head steady so he could begin to thrust into John's mouth. Slowly at first, giving John time to adjust to the motion of it, a gradual slide in until the head brushed against his soft palette mouth (but never venturing further back because somehow Sherlock knew that John wasn't ready for that yet, the sensation of a cock pressing to the back of his throat), and then retreating until just the very tip remained inside. Jesus, had Sherlock been this big when John saw it for the first time?

Between the turmoil of his thoughts,_ 'There's a cock in my mouth, there's a cock in my mouth,_ Sherlock_ is in my mouth,'_ and concentrating on trying to keep his mouth and throat relaxed, it was probably a given that John would forget about his own arousal for a time, but eventually the tightening in his trousers was too much to bear and his fingers scrabbled at his jeans, undoing the top button and sliding the zip down to relieve some of the pressure. Almost of their own accord, his boxers were pushed down so his cock sprang free from underneath them, moaning desperately at the first jolt of pleasure when he curled a hand around himself and tugged at his length.

Sherlock noticed what he was doing (how could he not, a man as observant as he was), but John wasn't prepared for what happened next. The fingers in his hair tightened again, pulling his head back while he was still sucking so his mouth made a popping sound when Sherlock's cock was removed. "Did I give you permission to touch yourself?"

Gasping, John pulled his hands away from his body, planting them beside his hips and ordering himself not to move despite the intense ache between his thighs. "No, Sherlock."

Sherlock's right hand came underneath his chin, tilting his head up so John could see his face, relief spreading through him when Sherlock didn't look angry or disappointed; definitely aroused and maybe a little domineering, but not anything that gave John cause for real concern. "You haven't come," Sherlock said after a moment, "but I think a little positive reinforcement is in order. Good submissives wait for their masters to command them; they_ do not_ take matters into their own hands."

"I'm sorry," John murmured, a flash of shame pooling in his stomach and there was something seriously wrong with him because Sherlock's words just made him harder, so much that it felt like he was about to burst and surely Sherlock could see that.

The hand left his chin, bringing those fingers up to his mouth where they traced his lips. "Give me your safe words."

Oh, there was only one reason Sherlock would be asking him for those… "Warten and Arrêter," John replied after a second, shutting his eyes when Sherlock's hand left his face and swallowing around the lump in his throat.

"Stand up," Sherlock said, pulling his own trousers up around his hips and putting his erection away before stepping around John's kneeling body. John was quick to follow the order, watching Sherlock walk towards the table and move the items off of it, creating a clear surface and then turning back to John. "Come here."

Given his recent disobedience, John didn't hesitate, walking over to Sherlock and following his direction when hands pushed him over at the waist until John was bent across the table, his elbows on the edge of it and his hips tilted up in an inviting curve. The vulnerability of his position wasn't lost on him, especially when Sherlock walked behind him and smoothed his hands along John's flanks, palming his buttocks and dipping his fingers into the crook of his hip bones. "God, Sherlock," he whispered, pressing his burning face into his arms as Sherlock's hands reached around his waist and pulled his jeans and boxers down, baring his arse to the air until they pooled around his feet. But Sherlock didn't remove his clothes entirely, leaving them tangled around his ankles so he couldn't spread his legs any wider, the small restraint working wonders on John's mind. Sherlock wanted him helpless and having his jeans as they were meant he wouldn't be able to leave in a hurry.

Without any preamble, thumbs dipped into the crease of his arse and pulled at the muscles until his hole was exposed to the detective, Sherlock's small hum of appreciation filling John's ears. "You look even better than I imagined," Sherlock murmured, his thumbs slipping out of the crease and staying on his buttocks, squeezing at them a few times before releasing him entirely. "Are you ready?"

John's breath escaped him in a rush because _fuck yes_, God, he'd been ready the instant Sherlock walked through the door, needing the pain that he was sure Sherlock was going to give him now even as his body trembled on the table and his breathing quickened in anticipation. He reached out with his hands so they were spread on the table, trying to give himself an anchor before he gave Sherlock his answer. "I'm ready."

_Smack!_

"Unh, God!" Sherlock's hand slapped onto his right buttock, the pain jolting through him even as he breathed through it, already anticipating the next one, and the next one, and the next...

_Smack!_

_Smack!_

_Smack!_

He couldn't stop his moaning as the strikes continued, hissing between his teeth when one bit especially hard on an area that was beginning to feel hot and swollen, but he didn't ask Sherlock to stop even when he realised that Sherlock hadn't specified how many smacks he would be giving. The animal part of his brain was more than happy with that, willing to bask in the_ pain/pleasure_ that Sherlock was giving him and arching his body in a clear signal for Sherlock to continue his discipline. Could it still be called discipline if he was getting off on it? Christ,_ yes,_ he was definitely getting off on it, a growl erupting from his throat when Sherlock laid four slaps across the same patch of skin so it flared with bright agony, his eyes rolling back in his head at the sensation.

An eternity later the smacks stopped and John wondered how he'd lasted as long as he had without this. He was soaked through with sweat, his shirt clinging to him beneath his jumper and he just _knew_ his hair had gone a bit spiky on top, the way it always did after a strenuous workout. His buttocks were really smarting, a mass of red, stinging flesh that ached when he tensed the muscles there and he gasped again when Sherlock's hand, his right, gently cupped his right cheek to feel the heat coming off of his skin. John's face pressed against the table, his breath misting the wood beneath him as he tried to catch some of it back and sobbing when Sherlock,_ 'viciously,'_ his mind accused, pinched once at his glutes, sparking the fire anew. "Fucking hell, Sherlock," he groaned, pressing his forehead into the table when his erection pulsed between his legs at the rough treatment.

"I did say some positive reinforcement was in order," Sherlock said, his hands circling John's hips and pulling them back so he could grind his cloth-covered erection against John's tender skin, the grip tightening when John yelped. "I didn't say that you would achieve orgasm because of it." Sherlock's hands left John's hips, his entire body in fact, and John kept his face down as he heard Sherlock rummaging around behind him, flinching when he heard a sharp click. "Although when I think about it," Sherlock drawled, and John's eyes shot open when a new wetness formed between his buttocks and centred on his hole, "you might not be able to help yourself after this."

There was a small pause, just enough time for John to realise that it was one of Sherlock's fingers against his arse, and then it was pushed inside all the way down to Sherlock's first knuckle, slick with warmed lube that the other man must have had in his Belstaff pocket. "Arrrgh, God!" His body immediately tensed with the intrusion, his hands scrambling uselessly under him as Sherlock began to thrust with that same finger, a gradual withdrawal with a continuous swirl inside him until the rim of his opening was being rubbed with the pad of Sherlock's finger and then pushing back in. "Fuck! Fuck, Sherlock…"

"You're so tight," Sherlock murmured, crooking his finger and stroking up along John's inner walls until he found the little nodule he'd been looking for, teasing around it but never pressing into it, testing the strength of John's reaction to the new stimulation of his prostate. "You must have clenched around your fingers beautifully when you had them buried inside you last night," he said, doing something with his finger that made John moan and thrash beneath him, "wishing all the time that they were mine instead because you wanted to know if you could take it."

John shut his eyes weakly at Sherlock's words, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as his body began to urgently thrust back to meet Sherlock's finger, already longing for the stretch of two because he knew he could handle it and he wanted to learn the shape of Sherlock this way too, see how it was Sherlock would fit inside his body. He felt Sherlock's finger withdraw and had barely a moment to register it before a second one squirmed its way alongside the first, twisting and pumping into him so he could get used to the burn they created. His own fingers had never felt this good, never felt this_ right_, and Sherlock's fingers were so long and elegant and turning him inside out so that there was nothing left but the feeling of them inside him.

_Smack!_

"Oh fu-!" Now that had _hurt_ but it felt so good, his arse clenching with the smack of Sherlock's left hand while his fingers carried on with their slow thrusting. "God, again," he gasped, twisting his head around to look at Sherlock over his shoulder. "Do that again," he pleaded, "oomph," coming from him when Sherlock forced his head back down to the table with his left hand and growled in his ears.

"Naughty submissives don't get to order their Doms around, John," Sherlock said darkly, withdrawing his fingers from John's arse and moving away from him. When John went to turn around to see where Sherlock was going, Sherlock's quick, "stay where you are," stalled all movement and he hurriedly went back to his first position, anxiously waiting to see what Sherlock would do next. "It's time for me to test your limits," Sherlock said when he came back, resting one hand on the small of John's back and stroking in what was meant to be a soothing motion, but John couldn't think about anything else beyond the test Sherlock was speaking of. "It will take a large degree of trust from you on your part, and you have your safe words if things become too intense for you, but we are doing this my way or not at all. If you don't feel you're ready for this, say so now."

_'Ready for what?'_ John thought, panting against the table and trying to get his befuddled mind in some semblance of order. Which was a study in uselessness because all he could think about was Sherlock's fingers buried inside him just a moment ago, wanting them back inside so he could fuck himself stupid on them and probably have the strongest orgasm ever in the process. But what Sherlock was suggesting… More pain? Domination? God help him, the thoughts were enough to make him tremble, a noise betraying his need filling the room around him and only realising at the last moment that it was _him_, that he was making that sound. "Yes, Sherlock," he whispered, clearing his throat and trying again. "Yes, Sherlock, I want this," which was better, stronger and full of conviction.

"Oh, John," Sherlock said, right by his ear now, Jeez, when had the other man moved? "That was exactly what I was hoping you'd say," before a blindfold was tied over his eyes.

_To be continued_

***snicker***

**I'm such a tease...**

**A/N 2: ****Just a quick aside from the plot I've already got going for this story, if you can think of a Scene you'd like to see happen, or just a plotline in general, please let me know and I'll see if I can work it in.**

**I haven't decided whether this will be mostly porn without plot or whether I'll put some angst in, but I'm interested in seeing what you all think. After all, I am writing this all for you as much as I am myself *wink***

**Some of my lovely reviewers have also wondered whether I'll be doing any scenes from Sherlock's POV. I must admit, I am sorely tempted but it will probably be something I'll start after Perihelion is finished in its entirety and will probably involve the scenes people liked the most from John's POV, translated over to Sherlock's. If this is something you'd like to see in the future please let me know ^^**

**And, while I'm working on part ten (part TEN, people, who knew it'd get this far!), here are some virtual hugs, kisses and biscuits (because I'm a British girl and we have biscuits!) for you all to thank you for your continued support and patience!**

**Darkangel1211 xxx**


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